Scandalous
by MGMK
Summary: Washington D.C. is full of people who have sworn to do right by this country. The problem is, they're still people like us. They make mistakes. And when they do, it's Santana's job to fix them. Rating will be adjusted for future chapters.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **And it is with much trepidation that I post this piece of fiction. It's reason for coming to be? _Scandal_. 'Cause I like it. And of course Brittana, my OTP forever and ever. You see, in my world, _Glee_ ended its three-year run with a lovely series finale entitled "Nationals" so I harbor no ill will anymore. **Trigger Warning: ****I can't believe it's actually come to this but… if you have some untoward feelings about Sam's character (and subsequently the pairing of Brittany and Sam), then perhaps you shouldn't read this. **

* * *

**Introduction**

_**February 17, 2021**_

The cameras flash the moment he steps from behind the blue curtains, his steps unhurried and determined.

Sam makes sure he looks at everyone of them on his trek to the podium, much practiced at this song and dance after two years in office.

"Hello everybody," he says, speaking directly into the microphone, maintaining the six-inch distance. "Hello. Good afternoon – or good morning everyone," he corrects. "You'll have to excuse me, the hours are starting to run together a little these days. As you all know, we here at the White House have been working very diligently to resolve this crisis in South America. We've reached out to the South American government and I can assure you that we will bring our people home unharmed. That is my promise to the American public."

Sam pauses here, has enough time to seek out some of the more familiar faces of the political press – Blaine Anderson of _The Washington Senator _and Marley Rose of the D.C. Daily to name a few – before Mercedes, off to his side, nods at him to continue the speech.

"You see here in America, we encourage visitors. We encourage them to observe our culture, experience our lifestyle, to learn from our democracy. And the world would be a perfect place if every nation were as…open as ours. But, I'm a realist. And though optimistic about the nature of people, I cannot turn a blind eye to the fact that there are just some folks who want to cause chaos, rock the boat," Sam looks directly into the camera now. "They can try. _Let_ them try. Because we will always stay the course and we will break through the chains of injustice, suffer through whatever pains we have to to bring about a safer nation, a safer world."

"Ahhh!"

Sam's eyes dart up from his speech towards the direction of the noise and he sees Mercedes doubled over in pain, her hands clutching at her stomach.

That's when the cameras finally cut away.

* * *

"But Lady Charity, Lord Tubbington says, the elephants scare me oh so much. Must we go to the circus?"

Brittany makes sure to hold the book up high so that all the children can see the illustrations.

In front of her about thirty fresh-faced first graders are staring up at her, excited more about the book-reading than her presence and she's glad. They should be more interested in reading and learning than in a celebrity.

Though she'd hardly consider herself one of those.

It's just another consequence of the title she supposes.

She's about to start another page when one of the aide's strides over – seemingly unsure of whether to walk briskly or jog – and whispers into her ear.

Brittany's expression never changes – adept as she is as maintaining her emotions in public, again, a consequence of the title – the smile on her face practically sewn on she's practiced it for so long, as she nods, closing the book quietly.

"I'm sorry children but I'm going to have to cut today's visit a little short," she says regretfully.

The children all groan, little pouts forming on their faces.

"Don't worry. I'll be back soon," Brittany promises as she rises to her feet.

The aides help her into her coat quickly before ushering her away with the secret service men flanking her on every side.

She doesn't notice the muted television on the counter they pass, the headline '_White House Chief of Staff goes into labor during President Evans' press conference'_.

* * *

Sam races down the hospital corridor, his two permanently assigned secret servicemen struggling to keep up with his pace.

He throws open the doors to the maternity ward, eyes seeking out anyone for assistance and finally landing upon the familiar face of the obstetrician.

"How is she?" he asks.

The doctor smiles warmly at him, clipboard in hand as she quickly reviews the vital statistics.

"Everything's perfectly fine, Mr. President. We're just waiting on everything to be completely go before we, you know, go."

Sam's shoulders practically sag with relief as he smiles. "That's great."

"You should really relax, Sir," the woman smiles, a mischievous glint in her eye. "After all, you should probably get used to not having your right hand woman around as often."

Sam's smile tightens, a change that the doctor invariably notices.

Confused at his sudden change in demeanor, the woman merely shrugs, turning back to give directions to the waiting nurses.

Sam purses his lips in thought, barely moving when one of his secret servicemen, Jake, steps up beside him.

"We can take care of that for you Sir," he says, gesturing across the way to his partner, Kitty.

"No," Sam says weakly, nearly under his breath. "No," he says, much firmer this time. "It'll be alright. I just…I need to see Mercedes."

Jake and Kitty share a look.

"I don't think that's the best idea, Sir."

"Oh, you don't do you?" Sam asks, rhetorically. "Well, guess what? I don't care what you think," he snaps, much uncharacteristically.

When they both remain silent, Sam just sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired all of the sudden. "I didn't mean that. But, I need to see Mercedes. It's important."

Jake and Kitty look to one another again.

Sam rolls his eyes, groaning. "Can you stop with the creepy, synchronized staring? What? Does she not want to see me or something?"

Jake and Kitty still remain silent, though their lack of response merely indicates he hasn't guessed correctly yet.

"Well, what is it then? Spit it out," he commands and Jake finally spills the beans.

"The First Lady is in with Mercedes, Sir."

* * *

"Hey," Brittany greets gently, stepping through the door help open for her.

From her hospital bed, Mercedes looks up, surprised. "Britt," she breathes, still fighting through the – thankfully - relatively mild labor pains. "You came."

"Of course I came," Brittany says, taking the seat near the bed and reaching over for Mercedes' hand. "You've been one of my husband's closest friends for forever, and have been mine for seemingly just as long. You couldn't have possibly believed I'd miss this."

Mercedes smiles, her skin aglow. "Thanks, Brittany," she says, earnestly. "I hope Sam's not too upset I ruined his press conference," she jokes, though there's a bit of sincerity in it. Mercedes is ever the professional. "And we'd penned the most perfect speech too."

Brittany sucks her teeth. "Sam'll be fine," Brittany reassures her. "You leave your mean ol' boss to me."

Mercedes grins again, the smile slowly fading into a grimace the more the pain kicks in. "I think…" she starts, squeezing Brittany's hand tighter than she intended to, "I think I might have to."

* * *

**2:11:43 A.M.**

Santana, phone in hand, lays draped across her bed, hair fanned out across all the pillows.

The covers obscure her for the most part, but not enough to hide her naked shoulders or the blonde woman curled up beside her.

Her phone buzzes.

Santana clutches the device instinctually, stirring awake in mere seconds and alert just a few seconds after that. With the career she's chosen, it's best to be on guard virtually twenty-four/seven.

The number is – not unusually – blocked, which can only mean one thing.

"Whaddya wan?" she slurs across the line, not caring to mask her annoyance.

"_Ms. Lopez_," the voice on the other end addresses her and she recognizes who it is immediately, "_We have a situation_."


	2. The Fix Is In

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **First, I want to thank you all for the feedback and reviews. I can still tell some of you are a little hesitant about this one because of the Brittany/Sam thing but, honestly, I wouldn't worry about it if I were you guys. Also, I want to extend a personal thank you to my new beta for looking this over for me. Okay, that's it. Happy Monday! Enjoy!

* * *

**The Fix Is In**

_**February 18, 2021**_

The elevator doors close in front of her and Santana takes off her sunglasses.

In spite of it being nearly three in the morning, she still finds security in the subtle obscurity of hidden eyes.

If eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, then Santana's drapes are always drawn.

Always.

It's how she's become who she is.

After all, how many D.C. success stories start with _her eyes were really genuine_?

Nope. In this land of 'kill or be killed', one has to protect his or her most valuable asset: one's self.

The elevator doors open.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice, Ms. Lopez," one of the many aides she's met over the years says, the young woman looking haggard and a little worse for wear.

"It's fine," Santana says, following her down the relatively empty hospital corridor. "Anything for a friend. I would however like to know if I'm about to step in it."

"Excuse me?" the woman asks, confused.

"I see," Santana smiles a little. "Info's on a need to know basis. Must be pretty big."

The woman, still completely oblivious, stops on the dime in front of a hospital room flanked on either side by men in suits.

"Secretary Jones is inside, Ms. Lopez," she announces, gesturing for Santana to enter the room and Santana does, graceful as ever as she enters the brightly lit, private hospital room. She's also very quiet, which is why Mercedes doesn't acknowledge her straight away.

Mercedes is lying on the bed, that much she can see, and in her arms is what looks like a bundle of fabric but Santana knows is the baby.

Mercedes is rocking the little lump gently, cooing and smiling down at it in her arms.

"I could've waited until daybreak, you know?" Santana finally says, voice quiet as she strides up to the bed. Mercedes is holding the little baby so close, that Santana can't even see the baby's face. "I wasn't_ that_ desperate to see your little bambino."

"Santana," Mercedes breathes, smiling brightly, "I'm so glad to see you."

"Look at you," Santana says, standing over the bed. She reaches a hand out to stroke Mercedes's hair lovingly. "You're a momma, Mama."

"I am," Mercedes nods, sniffling a little. "But I need your help with something."

"Okay, if the next words out of your mouth are 'wet nurse' then no," Santana jokes. "We go way back and everything but a home girl's gotta draw the line somewhere."

She laughs, fully expecting Mercedes to laugh as well, but when all her friend does is lower her eyes, her smile slowly fading as a single tear escapes, she gets worried.

She's practiced when it comes to these kind of situations now, and, try as she might to remain the ever patient, ever caring friend of Mercedes Jones of Lima, Ohio, she can't help slipping on the mask Santana Lopez, the D. C. powerhouse and protectorate of political careers.

And right now, Secretary Jones is in a bad way.

"What's…what's going on?" Santana asks hesitantly, fearing the worse.

Slowly, Mercedes unravels some of the blanket from the baby's face and Santana makes the connection instantly.

"No one can know the truth, Santana," Mercedes says although begs is a more appropriate descriptor. "No one."

* * *

_**December 15, 2015**_

"Samuel, I'd like you to meet Ms. Santana Lopez," Mercedes says, gesturing to the woman standing at her side. "Brilliant legal mind, fellow University of Louisville alumnus, and, most importantly, my best friend in the world."

Sam laughs. "Well, of course that's the most important title," he jokes, shaking Santana's hand companionably.

"Of course," Santana agrees light-heartedly, rolling her eyes in Mercedes's direction. "It's nice to meet you, Samuel. Finally," she adds, cutting her eyes at Mercedes.

"And I you, Santana. And please, call me Sam. Nobody calls me Samuel except my Mama and Nana, and Mercedes here. Coincidentally, they all happen to be women who run my life," Sam says. "On second thought, I insist you call me Samuel. Buck the trend."

"I don't run your life, Samuel," Mercedes says, gesturing for one of her assistants to close her office door. "Just your businesses. But if you want me to stop-"

"You'd better not ever stop, woman," Sam says, waiting for the two women to sit down before taking a seat himself. His eyes linger a little too long on Mercedes and Santana, as always, takes notice.

Santana looks at them both, waiting for either to get to the matter of why they'd even requested her presence and Sam looks at Mercedes once before diving right in.

"I bet you're wondering why we asked you here."

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes," Santana quips smartly. "It's not every day the Mayor's son asks you to lunch."

"True enough," Sam says, hesitating a moment longer as he takes a deep breath. "Okay, here goes nothing. I want to run for Senate."

Santana waits a beat, looking over both their expectant faces.

"…kay," she drawls out, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh," Sam says, laughing a bit nervously when he realizes his mistake. "I should clarify. I want to run for Senate and win. Therefore, I want you on the campaign team."

Sam's smiling brightly, as is Mercedes, and Santana…she is so not down with this.

"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I can't."

"Santana," Mercedes says, getting up when Santana does. Sam follows. "What-"

"Don't get me wrong. I am more flattered than Joan Rivers every time she pays herself – and her plastic surgeon – a compliment but I can _not _help you guys," she elaborates. "I don't even know anything about politics."

"Bull crap," Mercedes calls and Santana almost – _almost _– gasps. It's as close as Mercedes's righteous ass has ever come to a swear. "You live and breathe politics. This girl won senior class president four years in a row, Sam. And that's no small feat when you consider the people we went to school with. But she knows how to manipulate people. It used to be one of the things I couldn't stand about you because you'd get so…devious, but you get what you want Santana. By any means necessary, at times."

"I'm not about that life anymore," Santana says, raising a hand and waving it around a bit. "Defense attorney turned prosecutor, remember? I switched sides. I work with the good guys. And politicians, in spite of what they'd like everyone to believe, are not good guys," Santana adds darkly.

"Whoa," Sam says, making the time-out symbol with his hands. "Let's just slow down here. Now, we're just speaking hypothetically, okay? Let's say that you do come aboard. And, as a result, I win. It couldn't hurt for an up and coming prosecuting attorney to be friends with a Senator from Kentucky, right? I hear it's messy business; all the loops to go through and the favors prosecutors have to provide just to even get a warrant signed. Sometimes some really bad people slip through the cracks – and this ain't _Dexter _missy, there ain't no self-righteous serial killer lurking in the shadows to bring down the hammer. Nope, Mr. Bad Guy gets to giddy up into the sunset and you're left twiddling your thumbs, wondering just where it all went wrong. I can help you make sure that doesn't happen, Santana. But I need your help first," Sam says, looking at her earnestly. "Look, I'm one of the good guys, alright. I'm hoping to get into office and make this country better one piece of legislation at a time."

"It's true," Mercedes backs him up, finally speaking. "I wouldn't throw my weight behind just any old talking head, Santana. Sammy's the real deal."

Sam brightens considerably when she says that. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ms. Jones."

"You're welcome, Mr. Evans," Mercedes smiles, brushing her hair away from her face.

_Oh brother_, Santana thinks.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," Santana starts, taking her time in her delivery. "…I'm in."

"Hot dang!" Sam yelps, thrusting a celebratory fist in the air. He goes to hug her but she thrusts both hands forward to maintain the distance between them.

"Okay, rule number one," Santana states calmly, "Don't ever do that again."

* * *

_**August 11, 2016**_

Santana doesn't go around patting herself on the back often but she feels like this one deserves it.

Three months until the election and it looks like Sam may actually win this thing.

It's not every day you transform a swaggering, country bumpkin into a polished, aspiring politician.

Sam's ahead in the polls across the board; he toes the line politically so he's pulling the more moderate of Republicans in addition to carrying his party. Women love his down-home charm and his stance on civil rights (he refuses to call them gay rights; that distinction shouldn't be necessary in his opinion) lends him the support of the LGBTQ community.

And he's got the added advantage of having someone as wily as the Santana Lopez in his corner so, yeah, this election is in the bag.

Or at least that's what Santana thinks until she rounds the corner of the mayor's mansion and finds Sam and Mercedes engaged in a very heated, very public lip lock.

"Nope," Santana says aloud, quickly taking a look around her before closing in on the pair only just now pulling apart.

"Huh?" Sam asks, confused.

Mercedes looks over at Santana and smiles sheepishly. "Hey 'tana."

"Don't _hey 'tana_ me," Santana hisses, grabbing both of their arms and pulling until they're somewhere much more private than a hallway.

She closes the study door behind them.

"What is this?" she finally asks, gesturing at the both of them.

She wants to vomit when they get these lovesick expressions on their faces.

"We were gonna tell you," Sam says, grabbing Mercedes' hand and stroking the back of it tenderly. " Well, I was, as soon as we were official."

"And we just turned official," Mercedes adds, leaning into Sam's side.

"Well, unofficialize it," Santana says, matter-of-factly.

"What?" Sam asks, frowning.

"Okay, I hate to be the bearer of bad news…well, actually I don't, but, newsflash: this is still Kentucky. Also known as the south. Also known as the half of the country that's just not quite caught up socially. Now, your supporters have ridden with you on a lot of things Sam, but, you know how a great deal of your support comes from a bunch of old white men and women? Yeah, they're not going to fly for this," she tells them.

She doesn't say it to be mean.

She says it because it's true.

"You don't know that," Sam says, looking worried.

"I do," Santana tells him. "It's just the way the cookie crumbles. Now, I'm not saying that you two can't be together. You definitely can. I'm just saying that you won't win the election."

Santana looks at them both.

She's left the ball in Sam's court.

He can either fold and choose to settle down with Mercedes, or he can take a swing.

That November, Samuel Evans becomes the senator of Kentucky.

* * *

_**Present Day – May 2024**_

Santana surveys the front lawn, the landscape nearly entirely covered with people.

It's the White House's second annual Pet Adoption Fair and there are news reporters and camera crews all over but she's not ready to face them yet, or at least her clients aren't.

"This would work a lot better if you weren't scowling," Sugar says, pulling the foundation brush away from Mike's face.

They're in one of the privacy tents, meant for members of Congress to have a little down time, strategize, or just avoid the mid-afternoon sun.

But, in this case, its purpose is to provide Santana with a little more time to turn her perpetually arguing Speaker of the House and her soon-to-be husband into a smiling, loving couple.

"I'm not scowling," Mike grumbles, folding his arms across his chest like a petulant child.

"Oh, my bad," Sugar says with a hint of sass. "Is that how Asians normally look?"

"Sugar," Santana warns.

"Sorry," Sugar shrugs, swirling the brush along Mike's nose before drooping the applicator back into her kit. "Asperger's."

"How long do we have to stay at this thing?" Mike asks, annoyed.

"Long enough to quell any rumors that you might be leaving your fiancée," Santana says.

"I thought rumors were only rumors if they aren't true," the man says smugly, letting Sugar adjust his tie.

"Oh Mikey," Sugar says, finally done with making him up, "Only the best rumors _are _true."

"And you're not leaving me," a woman says, making a sudden appearance. "You don't have the balls to."

"Do you see how she talks to me?" Mike shouts, gesturing in his girlfriend's direction.

"Madame Speaker," Santana sighs, turning toward Speaker Quinn Fabray slowly, "Can you please refrain from emasculating your boyfriend for one day?"

Quinn shrugs, jerking away from the tiny brunette that's carefully teasing her hair. The woman seems to be following her wherever she goes. "I can try."

"And try you must, if you intend on getting re-elected," the little brunette says, fixing Quinn with a stern glare.

"Santana," Quinn says evenly, giving the woman a look of her own, "Your assistant is a little mouthy, don't you think?"

"Rachel," Santana says, addressing her good friend and employee, "Mind your manners. But, Quinn, she does have a point. You two have to at least attempt to look like you enjoy one another's company if you want to nix this adultery story."

Mike lets loose a small sob.

"Mike, honestly," Quinn says, rolling her eyes a little as she approaches the disgruntled man. "He was a meaningless little tryst. You know I love you," she says, brushing her hand lovingly against his cheek.

Mike stares back at her, breathing deeply to maintain his composure. "You've been in Washington for too long," he says, pulling away from her and standing abruptly, "I almost believed you."

"Alright Boss," Artie enters the tent, straightening up his suit tie as he strides in confidently, "Everybody's majorly distracted by some miniature pincher humping the Vice President's leg. Now would be as good as time as any."

"Okay, last check," Santana says, looking at Mike, "Who do you love more than anything?"

Mike rolls his eyes before grumbling. "My beautiful, confident, intelligent wife to be."

"Good," Santana says, nodding once. She turns to the Quinn. "And Madame Speaker?"

"Me?" Quinn says, hamming it up by pressing her hands to her chest dramatically. "Why Mike's the great love of my life. Spare me, Lopez. I know how to sling it."

Quinn takes Mike's hand and with a quick tug on the tent flap, she steps out into the sunlight, already waving and smiling before the first camera snaps.

* * *

"So when are we gonna hook up again?"

Santana rarely gets caught off guard, but, then again, she's not used to women like this.

Most people know her and know what she's about.

"We're not," Santana states easily, not letting the surprise at seeing the redhead from the other night even register on her face.

"Why not?" the woman pouts, lazily sipping from her glass of champagne. She moves a little closer to Santana but not close enough to give off an air of intimacy. "Was I not hot enough for you?" she whispers.

Santana smiles easily, ever aware of her surroundings, of the eyes that may or may not be watching. "I don't do repeats."

She doesn't take pleasure in the way the woman's face falls but she needs to get the point across.

"Sorry," she adds, shrugging slightly before leaving the woman where she stands, quickly maneuvering through the bodies on top of bodies until she's in this secluded part of the garden, a stretch of grass bracketed on either side by enormous shrubs.

She's hoping, as she removes her sunglasses, for a little privacy after the exhausting morning she's had – there's only so many times a person can watch a grown man cry – but, unfortunately, it looks like that won't be happening.

"Uh oh."

Santana's eyes widen. "What…what are you doing here?" she asks, looking around frantically. "And where's your security detail?"

"I ditched them."

Santana's jaw drops. "You can't just do that," she near-screeches, incredulous.

"I totally can. And I did."

"I need to tell them where you are," Santana says, starting to turn to do just that but before she can there's a hand wrapping around her arm, stopping her momentum.

"Please don't," she says, looking into Santana's eyes.

From this close, Santana can make out the different shades of blue in them.

"I just needed a moment alone to breathe, you know? But it would've looked really bad if I'd have just trotted back into the house. At least this way I can just pretend I got lost like that time in the sewer," the woman jokes, rolling her eyes self-deprecatingly.

Santana swallows, weighing her options.

She could give into the woman's request. What's the worst that can happen?

Knowingly keeping the First Lady's whereabouts away from the Secret Service isn't considered treason, is it?

"I didn't think you'd actually gotten lost in the sewer," Santana finally says and Brittany's shoulders sag in relief.

"I didn't," Brittany says. "Not really. But the publicity people thought that would be cuter or something, I don't know." She gasps suddenly. "You can't tell anyone that, though."

Santana smiles. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Sure I do," Brittany smiles genuinely. She glances at Santana's nametag. "You're Santana Lopez."

"Nice," Santana laughs. "I can't believe this is how I'm finally officially meeting you."

At Brittany's look of confusion, Santana clarifies.

"I'm an old friend of your husband's," she explains, "And Mercedes."

Brittany's face only looks more confused. "And we've never met?"

"More of a political friend, I guess," Santana answers. "I'm a professional crisis manager."

"That sounds like a fancy way of saying professional pooper scooper," Brittany says after a moment of turning the title over in her head.

Santana shrugs. "Yeah, I am always cleaning up shit," she confirms and Brittany laughs.

Now, of course Santana's no stranger to this game. She knows when she's being led on, when a smile is merely there for show and when her presence is merely being tolerated. She's seen the First Lady in countless interviews and pictures and videos but she's never, ever seen her laugh like this.

It's just so…real.

And in a place where everything is always shrouded in this cloak of unnaturalness and rehearsed reactions, it's refreshing to see something so authentic.

"That's funny," Brittany says, still chortling. "You're funny. I like you, Santana Lopez."

"That's good to hear," Santana says smartly.

"Yeah," Brittany continues, her laughter trailing off. "And if you're such good friends with my husband, maybe we can be friends."

It's such an odd statement that it gives Santana pause.

"I know," Brittany says, sighing gently, "You'd think that being the wife of the Leader of the free world would lend itself to plenty of acquaintances, but, the fact of the matter is there aren't very many people I'm even allowed to spend time with. I mean, there's Mercedes but she's always working and I know you have a job too but…I don't know, maybe we can just chat over tea and crumpets or something – oh, yeah, we had tea and crumpets with the King and Queen and now I'm obsessed," Brittany shrugs, looking away for a brief moment before catching Santana's eye again. "It's nice talking to you. It's like, I don't have to watch what I'm supposed to say which is exhausting to have to do _all_ of the time."

Santana nods. "I get it," she says, shrugging one shoulder. "And, yeah, it's totally fine. We can, hang out or whatever. I can totally be friends with the First Lady."

"Yeah?" Brittany asks, hopeful.

"Yeah," Santana confirms with a grin.

Brittany breaks out into the biggest smile then, all bright, white teeth and glittering eyes.

It makes Santana pause and watch her.

Actually, she's staring.

Stop staring Santana.

"What?" Brittany asks, her smile slowing somewhat.

Santana shakes her head slightly. "Nothing."

But she's still smiling slightly, still looking.

Brittany smiles back until they both look away with a slight laugh, embarrassed.

Eventually, in a matter of seconds, their eyes find one another again, their smiles softening around the edges.

"Brittany, there you are," Sam says, suddenly striding into the clearing. "I've been looking for you all over."

Within seconds, the quiet is broken by the influx of security and press, and Sam's already gathering Brittany in a loose embrace and kissing her. He catches Santana's eye and winks.

"Sweetheart, now's no time to play hide and seek," Sam says as he pulls away, the crowd behind him laughing in response.

Brittany smiles and blushes, embarrassed, ducking her head shyly as Sam slides an arm around her waist possessively.

Santana works her way behind the crowd, looking on with the rest.

"I know what it is," Sam says, snapping his fingers. "Trying to ditch the high profile husband."

They laugh again and Brittany does as well, only Santana notices it's not the same as before.

"Yep Sam," Brittany jokes, "You got me."

"I do have you," Sam murmurs, playing it up for the crowd.

They share a chaste kiss to chorus of 'awws'.

* * *

"Alright," Santana says, taking her seat at the head of the big oak table. She looks around to the different members of her team. "What do we have?"

"Everything went pretty smoothly," Artie says. "There was a little chatter about Senator Fabray but that died down pretty shortly after Judge Sylvester literally crashed the party."

"I thought that ice sculpture she brought was pretty epic," Sugar says dismissively.

"A dog peeing on another dog?" Rachel says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "I was so grateful when that tacky thing fell to pieces. You have no idea."

"Is that all?" Santana asks, chuckling a little.

"Vice President Hudson got peed on twice, by the same Rat Terrier," Artie continues his report. "Oh, and Representative Cohen-Chang adopted a Yorkie mix. So we're good. Everyone thinks Speaker Fabray and her husband are the perfect couple again."

"Good," Santana nods, pushing away from the table slightly. "Excellent work guys. Let's shut it down for the night and get back at it tomorrow."

Santana looks on as they gather their things, handing over whatever files and notes they've collected and depositing them in a pile in front of her before tiredly shuffling toward the door.

"See you tomorrow, Boss," Artie says, gentlemanly holding the door open for the ladies. "Oh and there's one more thing, but I'm sure it was nothing – I didn't even bother writing it down – but a couple of people were commenting on how much time President Evans spent with the Jones' boy."

"Oh?" Santana asks, unaffected.

"Yeah," Artie shrugs, dismissive. "They probably think he's thinking about having kids or something. Whatever." He smiles at her, "Good night."

"Good night, Artie," Santana says, smiling back until the door closes behind him.


	3. Power Play

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **I never knew it was possible to grieve for someone you didn't even know. I know about being sympathetic, about being able to feel and relate to another person's pain, but grieving? I didn't think it was possible to truly grieve for someone who to you was practically a stranger. Well, now I know it is possible because that's what I've (and I know some of you have as well) been doing. I'm not great with words in circumstances like this but I always dug Cory as a person. His awkwardness was endearing and sweet. He was like this big kid and who doesn't aspire to be that when they grow up? I guess I'm just saying all of this to express the fact that he will be missed, forever and for always. Rest in peace guy.

**Author's Note #2: Trigger Warning – **Finn Hudson is a character in this story. Sorry for the delay, but posting last Monday just didn't seem right. Hope you guys enjoy the update.

**Author's Note #3: **Ignore if you don't care to know anything about me but I'm posting this with a really heavy heart. Someone very near to me passed away just yesterday and I almost didn't do this because...just because. But, as this person told me, life goes on so I'm going to go on. The best way I know how to.

* * *

**Power Play**

Vice President Finn Hudson is not what anyone would consider a brilliant political mind; in fact, it's probably more accurate to say his antenna doesn't pick up all the channels.

But, as is the case more times than most, the person with the title is mainly the walking, talking mouthpiece for the people who put him in the position to get the title.

In this instance, Mr. Hudson is just a means to Sue's end.

You see, unlike the surprisingly likeable Finn, Sue Sylvester has more than the requisite two working brain cells and she intends on making her mark on Washington much more lasting than consecutive stents on the probate law bench.

She wants on the Supreme Court and she wants on it now.

And not for some namby-pamby patriotic reason like world peace or something else entirely sissified like, say, homelessness.

Sue's mostly just concerned about guns.

She wants her guns, _all_ of her guns, especially the high-powered, high collateral damage ones, and President Evans has got several things coming to him if he thinks he's going to take them away from her.

Now, when Sue first heard the rumblings, she just chalked it up to the many tall-tales of Washington D.C. – there's even a story about the Bushes being direct descendants of Vlad the Impaler – but, after the fifth or so suspicion was raised around the water cooler, the cogs in her brain started turning and she became a woman with one mission.

If she could only get that oafish clown she'd helped get into office to cooperate.

"Finn Hudson!" Sue yells, towering over him as she stands at her desk.

Finn snaps to attention, looking away from her multi-color 3D images screensaver. "Yes."

"You're going on a hunting trip with the President this weekend, right?"

"Of course I am, Judge Sylvester," Finn answers, furrowing his brow. "You suggested it. You even offered up your ranch and rifle."

Sue rolls her eyes.

"And what, since you seem to be remembering things today, is your objective on this trip?"

Finn hesitates, twiddling his thumbs nervously in his lap. "To…shoot something?"

Sue drops her head into her hand, her thumb massaging her temple. "You're lucky you're so pretty."

"Why thank you Ma'am," Finn preens, sitting up further in his chair.

"Becky Jackson!" Sue bellows and within moments her assistant is at her side, ready for anything.

Finn's pretty sure she materialized out of thin air.

"Yes Ms. Sylvester?" Becky says.

"Please inform the Vice President of his mission on the upcoming hunting trip."

"Sure Ms. Sylvester," Becky says, stepping up to Finn with an air of authority that melts away the minute she's in his personal space as she smiles shyly.

"Mr. Vice President?"

Finn flutters his eyelashes, resting his chin in his palm. "Yes Becky."

"Ms. Sylvester would like you to reacquaint yourself with President Evans. Remind him of why ya'll are the best of friends and why, when he finishes his term, he should support you on your election bid," she tells him, using her prettiest voice. "Can you do that, Mr. Vice President?"

"Of course," Finn nods definitively. "Anything for a friend."

"Yes. Yes. Just get him comfortable," Sue says, looking on with measured disinterest. "See if he opens up about anything."

* * *

Santana adjusts the pastry box under her arm as she fishes her credentials out of her bag.

"Ms. Lopez," Azimio says, looking her up and down appraisingly, "Back so soon? It's usually months in between visits."

"Well, I missed being eye-groped," she shrugs, glaring at him from behind her shades.

Azimio smiles sheepishly. "Hey," he says and she hands over the box for him to inspect, "You can't get mad a brother for admiring the view. I know it'll never happen but, _damn_, you fine woman."

Santana laughs, shaking her head at his over the top antics. "Are we good?"

"Yeah, you're clear, but Secretary Jones hasn't gotten in yet."

"That's fine. I'm here to see Bri…the First Lady anyway," she says, smiling at him tightly when he gives her a curious look at her stumble. "She's in, isn't she?"

"Yeah," he says slowly, waving her on by. "Just got back in from walking the cat. She should be in the East Room."

"Okay. Thanks," she says, starting to walk off but then she stops, hesitating a moment before speaking again. "I know you've got to let the secret servicemen know I'm coming but could you ask them to keep it a secret?" she asks, biting her lower lip. "I want to surprise her."

It takes a lot to ignore his curious look.

She's been in and out of this building so many times that it should be easy enough to navigate its many halls and passages but it's not.

She gets turned around she's sure of it because she's running into far too many aides and secretaries – ones that know what she does and will no doubt wonder why she's making a second appearance in the span of a few weeks.

"Well, well, well, who do we have here?"

Santana curses to herself mentally before affixing a smile to her face, spinning on her heel and facing the man straight on.

Kurt Hummel's leaning against the corridor wall, smiling much too smugly for her liking.

He's going to say something to piss her off.

"Santana Lopez, the political pooper scooper," Kurt quips, smiling primly.

Santana narrows her eyes. "You think you're original but you're not."

"Oh please," Kurt dismisses, easily. "Who stuck their Lyndon B. in the wrong slot today?"

"For your information, Kurt," Santana starts, annoyance laden in her voice, "I'm here on a personal call, not business."

"Intriguing," Kurt drawls, interest piqued. "Who?"

"None of your business."

"Now, let's see. You're wearing your professional garb to impress yet you come bearing _sweets_," Kurt assesses. "It's not business so that's not a bribe and we all know that you don't just _do_ favors…" His eyes get large. "Oh my God; who are you sleeping with?"

Santana hushes him and pushes him into the corridor wall. "I'm not sleeping with anybody."

"Oh yeah," Kurt rolls his eyes, "Who are you banging?"

"Santana?"

Santana's and Kurt's heads both whip to the side where Brittany's stood looking at them curiously.

"Hi," Santana says brightly, stepping away form Kurt and straightening up.

"Hey there," Brittany smiles, shooing a bothersome aide away. "I thought that was you. Are you here to see Sam? Because he's away-"

Santana shakes her head, mute. Kurt smirks knowingly beside her.

"Mercedes then?" Brittany continues her query. "I think she's in meetings all day…"

"No, Brittany," Santana smiles stiffly, suddenly feeling twenty sets of eyes on her. "I'm here for you. I'm here to see you."

Brittany's entire face lights up with her smile. "You are?"

"Yeah," Santana says, holding up the box of sweets a little. "Friends right?"

"Yeah," Brittany nods, echoing Santana. "Friends."

* * *

Finn's shot misses the buck by about ten feet and he groans, drawing his rifle back down and planting the butt of it into the ground in frustration.

Sam laughs. "I'd almost forgotten how bad a shot you were," he says, patting his good friend on the shoulder companionably.

"I think the sight's off on this damn thing," Finn grumbles, annoyed.

"If you're talking about your head then, yeah," Sam jokes, trudging onward and beckoning Finn to follow. "Thanks for clearing your schedule up to come out here with me," he starts, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. "I really needed to let off some steam."

"No problem, man," Finn says, staring up, not quite able to see the sky through the thick of the tall trees. "We all need some chill time."

"Yeah," Sam says, slowing to a stop. He sets his rifle down and leans it against a tree. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything," Finn answers, still looking skyward.

"You ever think about what our lives would be like if I hadn't won the election?"

Finn blinks, breaking out of his Heaven gazing to mull over the question. "I can't say that I ever have," Finn answers honestly.

"Well, think about it now," Sam says, looking genuinely interested. "If we'd lost the election, what do you think you'd be doing right now?"

Finn squints, his mind going over a multitude of scenarios. "I…I don't know. I guess, well, I'm pretty sure I'd still be in politics," he starts, shrugging. "I probably wouldn't run for something so big again though because a loss like that, on like a globally-public stage…I don't think I could even bring myself to maybe have to go through that again."

"But, like, personally?" Sam asks, looking at Finn thoughtfully. "Would your life be the same?"

"Sure," Finn shrugs. "What are you getting at, Sam?"

"I just…it just seems like my life would have been exponentially different if I hadn't have won," Sam says quietly, seemingly wrapped up in his thoughts.

Finn looks over at him questioningly. "Different how? Different better?"

Sam doesn't shake his head but he doesn't agree either. "Just…different," he says, still wistful.

Finn thinks about prying a little more – Sue Sylvester's voice echoing in his ear – but then Sam's picking up his rifle again, trudging onward.

"Come on," he says, marching on and Finn obediently follows. "I'm pretty sure that buck went this way."

* * *

The Vermeil Room of the White House is so pretty that Santana feels uneasy even sitting in it.

It's not that she's not a girl who enjoys her decadence – her vast collection of Armani suits and Prada shoes prove otherwise – but even this is a bit more than upscale for her liking. The gilded silver furnishing fixtures and numerous gold decorative pieces only serve to make her even more aware of where she is and who she's with.

Brittany, a picture of pretty and elegant, moves about gracefully in the space, accepting the cart of tea that one of the servers have brought up only to wave them away after, not needing anyone to pour her tea.

"We're totally not supposed to eat in here," Brittany whispers conspiratorially, pouring Santana a cup of tea before delicately handing the china and saucer to the other woman.

Santana takes the tea, testing its warmth as she takes in its aroma. "Then maybe we should go somewhere else."

"No way," Brittany shakes her head, filing her own cup. "There's only two rooms that no one bothers to go in and this is one of them."

"What's the other?" Santana asks, curious.

"Lincoln's bedroom," Brittany answers, sinking back into one of the many cushioned chairs, "But I think that's got to do with the ghost more than anything else. Personally, I don't see what all the fuss is about. It's not like she's a scary ghost. She mostly just stares."

Santana chokes on her tea a little, her unexpected laugh catching her off guard.

"So, what'd you bring me?" Brittany asks, giddily eyeing the pink pastry box in Santana's lap.

"They're just these pastries from my favorite Shoppe here in D.C.," the woman answers, uncharacteristically shy and she undoes the ties. "I hope you like cherries."

Brittany's face falls. "I'm allergic."

"Oh," Santana says, feeling her stomach hollow out in embarrassment. "Um, crap…I…"

"I'm kidding, Santana," Brittany chuckles good-naturedly. "I'm just trying to get you to loosen up. I know this has got to be kind of intimidating but, like, just forget where we are for a minute, okay?"

"Okay," Santana nods. "I can do that."

"Good," Brittany says, reaching across the way and snatching one of the flaky pastries out of the box. "Now, tell me all about yourself Santana Lopez."

* * *

"Rutherford's a go," Kurt says, hanging up the phone before rubbing his eyes wearily.

Mercedes draws another line in the 'for' column and gives Kurt a quick thumbs up, still listening to Representative Ryerson ramble on and on about medicinal marijuana.

With any luck, she and Kurt will make a dent in this gun control congressional bloc. All they have to do is grease a few wheels, or, in Ryerson's case, get a few prescription pads, and they'll have enough votes to get it through the House.

"So, Sandy," Mercedes interrupts, "I'm sure President Evans can count on your support when the vote comes to the floor just like you can count on his support when the Calvin Broadus Initiative is finally green lit."

"_You've got is Missy," _Sandy says, his southern twang extra long, "_Now, tell me, is that delicious little assistant of yours still single or-"_

"Sorry Sandy," Mercedes says, "I think the Prime Minister's on the other line."

Without waiting for his reply she presses the end button on the phone, running a hand through her hair. "Kurt," she says wearily, "Ryerson asked me about you again. You need to get a man."

"You act like that's the easiest thing in the world to do," Kurt says, crossing off three more representatives from the list. "And you're one to talk."

"Please," Mercedes dismisses easily, "I'm too busy for a love life."

"That's a sorry excuse," Kurt murmurs, shaking his head.

"Still true," Mercedes maintains, scanning her desk for another calling list until her eyes trip over a random manila envelope.

"What's this?" she asks Kurt, hoping that he knows.

"I think it came up with the rest of the correspondence," Kurt says off-handedly but Mercedes is already opening it, pulling out the glossy 8" by 11" sheet of paper adorned with what looks like President Evans' family tree.

While this particular piece of correspondence is a little unusual, it's nothing that she hasn't seen before.

Actually, there's an exact replica hanging up in the East Room.

Only, there's one addition near the bottom that almost knocks her out of her seat.

Right next to Samuel and Brittany there's a line drawn to her own name and beneath that, the name of her son.

* * *

"But wait," Santana says, "How can they go on a hunting trip together? I thought the President and Vice President were never supposed to be at the same place at the same time."

"Yeah, no," Brittany says, shaking her head. "I mean, that's what they tell people for security reasons but they hang out all the time. We just have to keep very quiet about it all."

"That's crazy," Santana wonders aloud.

She's grown much more relaxed now that a pot of tea and a box full of pastries have been shared between them but it's probably mostly because of Brittany.

The woman sitting across from her seems to care not for decorum, especially if it's in lieu of comfort as she's since slipped off her shoes and stretched out along the large woven area rug.

Santana leans back, her legs crossed Indian-style as she rests her weight on her hands planted behind her on the floor.

Brittany shrugs. "I guess. I mean, it makes sense to me because if there's one thing I've learned about the security team, it's that they always do the super opposite of what they say they're gonna do," she says. "Like, they'll announce to the media that we're going to be traveling east on Pennsylvania Road but we're actually flying overhead in a helicopter. And, oh yeah, I've got a body double."

Santana laughs. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Brittany giggles. "She looks scarily a lot like me, too."

"I doubt that very much," Santana sighs, feeling very at ease. "You're one of a kind Brittany."

"So are you," Brittany replies honestly.

Santana has to swallow and look away. "Okay, so favorite room in the House, go!"

"Ah," Brittany fakes annoyance. "You can't just put me on the spot like that."

"I can and I just did," Santana says amusedly, "Come on. Pick. Pick. Pick."

"I don't know," Brittany says in exasperation, wracking her brain, "The library?"

"Really?" Santana asks, skeptical.

Brittany's eyes flash. "Yes," she says, a little defensively. "What? Is that hard to believe or something?"

"No…no of course not," Santana quickly reassures her. "It's just…well, that last article in the _D.C. Daily_ mentioned how much you liked gardening so I assumed that you'd say something related to that."

"You've been reading up on me?" Brittany teases, fluttering her eyelashes playfully and Santana rolls her eyes.

"_No_," she drawls out, biting back a grin. "I just happened to see it, that's all."

"Sure you did," Brittany murmurs, laughing when she sees Santana twisting her lips in an attempt not to smile. "Stalker."

"You wish," Santana finally says, getting some of her cool back – well, maybe if she were ten-years old.

"Okay, my turn," Brittany says, squinting as she thinks of a question. "Oh, I know. How do you feel about marriage?"

Santana blanches considerably. "What?"

"I know it's random but with Senator Fabray's wedding coming up it's kind of been on my mind a lot. Well that and this horrid pale blue dress I have to wear," Brittany says with a scrunched up nose. "Makes me look like a periwinkle pear."

"I…uh," Santana stumbles, "I…don't-"

"Are you married Santana?"

"Me?!" Santana says/asks. "No. I don't…no."

Brittany frowns. "You don't know?"

"I mean no, I'm not married," Santana answers. "I…I don't know how I feel about marriage, though." Santana grows pensive suddenly. "I'm actually pretty bad when it comes to relationships."

"Really?" Brittany asks. "That's kind of weird."

Santana rolls her eyes, laughing a little. "Thanks."

"No, don't do that, " Brittany says, sucking her teeth as she sits up. "I didn't mean it in a bad way. I just meant that you seem like one of those people that shouldn't have problems with that kind of thing."

Santana feels her eyes flutter, her lids opening and closing a lot slower than usual. She feels like she's about to say something really important, but before whatever's she's going to say formulates her phone – which has been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire visit – buzzes against her hip.

"I was wondering when that thing was gonna go off," Brittany says, slyly glimpsing at Santana's phone as the other woman unlocks the screen.

"Crap," Santana murmurs, closing the text message quickly and tucking her phone back away safely. "Hey Britt?"

"You've got to leave?" Brittany asks, pouting adorably.

"Work," Santana explains apologetically. "But, um, can we…I mean, if you still want to hang out again sometime-"

"You know where to find me," Brittany jokes, saving the other woman from her rambling.

"I do," Santana says, pushing herself up to her feet again as Brittany does the same, collecting her flats as she goes. She hesitates for a moment before holding a hand out to Brittany, intending to give her a handshake, but Brittany merely smiles at her before yanking Santana's arm and pulling her into hug that she wasn't expecting.

Santana's not really a hugger – she mostly just goes stiff and awkwardly pats the other person on the back – but Brittany doesn't seem to mind, resting her chin on Santana's shoulder as she holds her close.

"Don't make me wait too long," Brittany whispers.

"I won't," Santana promises.


	4. Who's On First?

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Thank you to those of you who read and review. I can't stress how helpful that is to the writing process. A special thank you to those of you who sent your well wishes and condolences. It helped me greatly this past week, I can assure you. Any mistakes made here are solely mine. **Trigger Warning:**Sam and Finn are characters in this story.

* * *

**Who's On First?**

Santana arrives last.

It's not that she's seen as a person of lesser importance or anything.

In fact, in this particular circle, she might as well be considered the most important person.

She's only the last to arrive because…Santana Lopez always makes a grand entrance.

Santana throws open the double doors, her eyes seeking out those of her fellow associates even though they can't see hers.

"Who here needs a refresher course in what the word secret means?"

"Good Lord, Santana," Mercedes sighs, more than grateful to see the other woman. She rushes forward, "I'm so glad you're here-"

Santana holds up her hand to stop her, removing her sunglasses. "Has the room been swept yet?"

Sam looks around, confused. "This is the White House," he says in answer and Santana merely rolls her eyes.

"Must I do everything myself?" she sighs, snapping her fingers to get the attention of the two nearest Secret Servicemen. "GI Joe and Jane," she says, addressing the pair, "Either one of you have a radio?"

Jake shrugs and hands his over and Santana, after turning the radio on, takes a few swift steps until there's a little distance between herself and everyone else before dropping the thing onto the floor and stepping on it, the feedback screeching so loudly in Jake and Kitty's respective headsets that they both wince dramatically.

Santana sifts through the ruins while Jake and Kitty frantically assure their fellow servicemen that everything is fine, the other men's loud queries echoing out of their headsets, until she finds what she's looking for – a small, cylindrical object seemingly from nowhere.

"Here we go," she says, grinning.

"What is that?" Kurt asks.

"That's some CIA level stuff. That's what that is," Jake says, bewildered. "How do you know about this?"

Santana shrugs. "I have my sources. Now, everybody shut up and listen for the beeps."

Santana presses a small button on the side of the device and within seconds, small yet high-pitched beeps sound throughout the small space.

Sam's eyes widen. "They're bugging my coatroom?"

"National Security shouldn't be taken lightly, Sir," Kitty says, eyes following Kurt and Mercedes as they start to remove the listening devices.

"Yeah, but, it's like, my coatroom," Sam says, a bit annoyed. "That's right up there with bugging the bathroom."

Kitty glances at Jake guiltily.

"You bug my bathroom?!"

"Okay, while he's dealing with that," Santana says waving at Sam and his two guards while focusing her attention on Mercedes and Kurt, "Let's get to the matter at hand. Which one of you ran your goddamn mouths?"

"It wasn't me," Mercedes says. "Let's face it. A reveal would not paint me in the best light. It'd be like Monica Lewinsky times a million."

"And I have no reason to tell," Kurt explains. "Aside from the fact that I'd lose this cushy White House gig, Mercedes is still _my_ best friend."

Santana – the consummate professional – lets that roll right off her back. "Which leaves Sam."

"And you," Sam adds, finally having caught up to the conversation. "You'd have the most to gain and let's be honest, you're not the biggest fan of the initial plan anyway."

"I wouldn't do that," Santana says, uncharacteristically diverting her gaze for a moment. "In spite of how I feel about your personal discretions, I was hired to ensure that those discretions didn't interfere with your political career. If I don't do my job, I don't do business and, not sure if you've noticed, my business is how I make a living," Santana finishes, straightening her shirt collar. "And I needs my bling."

"Well, it's not me," Sam maintains. "It's political suicide."

"What about Jake and Kitty?"

"They have no idea what we're talking about," Mercedes dismisses. "We could be talking about socks as far as they know."

Jake laughs, rolling his eyes deprecatingly as he crosses his arms. "We know you're not talking about socks."

"Well then, what _are_ we talking about?" Santana asks, raising an arched eyebrow and Jake gulps, noticeably.

"Something top secret?"

"And well above your pay grade," Santana adds with a nod before turning her full attention back to the whole group. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. This whistleblower wants a sit down, right? We'll give him one."

Santana grabs Mercedes' arm to bring her closer. "Concede nothing. Until we know exactly what this person has we don't even want to let on that this is even a threat. Make sure you send someone low on the totem pole, just to send the message that our interest couldn't be minimal."

Mercedes nods, already formulating a list of White House aides in her mind.

"Kurt, you keep an ear to the floor. If there are any rumblings you get back to me a.s.a.p."

"Yes, Ma'am," Kurt nods, dutifully taking notes on his phone.

"And Sam?" Santana starts, eyeing the gentleman as he stands with his shoulders squared and looking ready for direction.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks.

The first thought that crosses her mind leaves just as quickly, after all, it's not her place to speak on such things.

Even if _try being a better husband_ is something he desperately needs to hear.

"Just maintain," she tells him. "With any luck, this whistleblower will roll over and give up any intel they have."

* * *

It's because Santana's lucky that Brittany calls her just after the Big White House Hootenanny – yeah, she named it.

She imagines it'd be a bit hard to compartmentalize her feelings for Brittany as a friend and her priorities for Sam as her client. As far as she sees it, Sam's a world-class jerk for a) picking his career over Mercedes and then 2) fathering a child outside of his marriage.

But what she finds even more egregiously offensive than that is that he'd actually cheated on Brittany in the first place.

In the few short weeks since they've become friends it's gotten even more impossible for Santana to believe.

Aside from the obvious attractiveness (Santana has eyes, okay?) and her incredibly endearing and delightful personality (she's like one of the Care Bears in human form), Brittany's ridiculously smart and perceptive.

Which is why Santana almost visibly cringes whenever she remembers that Brittany elected to stay with Sam all those years ago, in spite of the infidelity, in spite of the _baby_.

No one with so much going for them should settle.

"Hello?" she answers her cell, glancing around at the passersby surreptitiously.

After all, Brittany has a tendency to sneak up on her when she's around the White House.

There's some sniffling across the line and Santana instantly feels her stomach hollow out. "Brittany?" she asks hesitantly.

"Santana," Brittany's voice sobs out across the line, stopping Santana in her tracks.

"Where are you?"

* * *

"Oh, I know," Sugar says, raising her nail file in the air suddenly, "Maybe she's pregnant."

"Um, I don't think so," Artie says hesitantly, patting the woman on the head. "I'm pretty sure lesbian sex makes that impossible. Good guess, though."

"I don't understand," Rachel laments, swiveling slowly in her office chair, "Why would she keep us in the dark about anything? Doesn't she trust us?"

"You know she only does it for our own good, Rach. The less we know, the less likely we are to be held liable should anything go down," Artie says, shrugging his shoulders. "San's always looking out for us."

"Yeah, but if she's in trouble we should definitely return the favor," Rachel insists, scooting her chair over until she's directly in front of Artie.

Too directly.

Artie pushes her back a few inches. "Number one: how many times have I told you about getting all up into this," he asks rhetorically, waving a hand in front of his own face. "You gotta learn to understand personal boundaries. And two: if Santana needed our help, she'd ask for it."

"Unless of course she's too petulant and stubborn to ask," Sugar throws out offhandedly, still more interested in filing her nails. She looks up after a few minutes of silence to find both Artie and Rachel glaring at her. Sugar just shrugs cutely, grinning widely. "Asperger's?"

"That's getting old," Artie says.

"Never," Sugar announces with an air of defiance.

"I…," Rachel starts, the wheels in her head turning, "…I…am going to look in her office," she rushes out quickly, leaping from her chair and dashing away before Artie can so much as shake his head in opposition.

"Santana's office is off-limits," he calls after her, hurrying to catch up but he's already too late; Rachel's already striding across the office door threshold.

"This is an emergency, Artie," Rachel tiffs, looking around.

"I don't see how you being nosy is an emergency," Artie hisses, already infinitely anxious since he's followed her in.

"Easy," Rachel says with a shrug, eyeing the itineraries piled on Santana's desk with interest, "If I don't find out what's going on, I'll explode. What's this?"

Artie looks at the piece of paper, completely blank save for an address typed in a single line across the middle of it.

"None of our business."

"But what if somebody's blackmailing Santana?" Rachel cries, "Or, what if – hear me out – there's some Ecuadorian drug kingpin after her because we once helped one of his enemies?"

"Is it lonely?" Artie says, staring at her incredulously. "You know, in the little place inside your head where you live?"

"Whatever," Rachel says dismissively, returning her attention to the paper, "That's not even that far-fetched. We should google this address."

"We should get out of Santana's office," Artie says.

"Oh my goodness, take a chill pill Artie," Rachel says, "She probably wouldn't even mind."

"Oh, I beg to differ."

Rachel and Artie pause, neither having spoken and both look in the direction to find Puck standing in the doorway, his body leaning against the jamb leisurely.

"Oh," Rachel says, putting on her best smile, "Hi Puck. When did you get back?"

"A few days ago," Puck answers, his hardened eyes blinking once before focusing in on the piece of paper in the woman's hands. "What's that?"

"It's, uh, nothing," Rachel says. "A piece of stray garbage that was loitering around on Santana's floor. Artie and I were cleaning up and-"

"I think it says 1271 First Street," Puck interrupts, taking a single yet very intimidatingly direct step forward, "And that's an address. And since it was in Santana's office, I'm going to suggest you put it back where you got it from and forget it ever existed."

"Okay, how does he do that?" Artie asks no one.

"I'm just going to put this back here," Rachel says, laying the paper back across Santana's desktop and smoothing it gently. "And Artie and I are going to go back to our own work." She grabs for Artie's hand and they both scoot by Puck, the man barely allowing them enough to space to get past him as he keeps his eyes on the pair.

"It's good to have you back," Rachel adds briskly, her footsteps echoing down the corridor as they go.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea," Artie hisses at her.

"Oh shut up Artie," Rachel whispers back.

Puck watches them leave, shaking his head at their childish back and forth exchange with a barely evident smile, before he returns his attention to Santana's darkened office.

He takes out his cell phone and shoots off a quick text before walking over to Santana's desk and picking up the single sheet of paper.

When his phone sounds again and he scans the reply, he's already feeding the paper into Santana's office shredder and already erasing the information from his mind.

* * *

"Are you sure there isn't anything I can't assist you with ma'am?"

Brittany dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex as she shakes her head, adding it to the pile she'll be sure to discard of later. "I'll be okay Mrs. Pillsbury," she says, blowing her nose.

Emma winces in displeasure, wanting more than anything to rid the freshly dusted mahogany tabletop of the soiled tissues but not quite bringing herself to be able to.

"Do you want me to ask for the President for you?"

"No," Brittany's quick to say, a little too quick as Emma's already doe-wide eyes grow wider. "No. I don't want to trouble him. I'll be fine. Promise."

"Okay," Emma relents, but not before finally manages to sweep the tissues into a small wastebasket with a gloved hand. "But if you need help-"

"I'll come get you," Brittany finishes before Emma does, her smile genuine though watery. She maneuvers the other woman until they're both at the door, her hand already turning the nob. "Now, go. Leave me alone so I can suffer in silence."

Emma gasps. "Mrs. Evans-"

"Kidding," Brittany assures her, lightly shoving her out of the room. "Just kidding."

It takes a few more quiet reassurances but soon enough Emma's leaving Brittany in relative peace, a move Brittany laments almost as immediately as it happens.

With the presence of someone else, Brittany at least has to try to keep her mind off of the things that are troubling her, but, left to her own devices, her thoughts just echo over and over on repeat.

"Mrs. Evans?"

Brittany looks to the still mostly closed door. She didn't even hear it open.

They don't call them the secret service for nothing.

"Yes?" she says, straightening up.

"There's a Ms. Lopez here to see you?"

Brittany frowns. "Is that a question or a statement?"

"Move you buffoon," Santana grunts out, squeezing by the armed guard with little precaution. "Brittany? Are you okay?"

Brittany doesn't think twice when she jumps up suddenly and throws her arms around the other woman. "I'm so glad you're here."

Santana's returns the embrace, even though she's typically not much of a hugger. But, in this case, she'll indulge Brittany for as long as Brittany needs her. "Of course I am," she says, her voice calm and soothing. "What's wrong?"

Brittany's arms tense around Santana's neck as Brittany snuggles a little further into the hold. "It's stupid."

"Brittany," Santana tsks, pulling back a little until Brittany's previously hidden face comes back into view. Her eyes tick over the blonde woman's features, trying to read between the lines. It's weird, because they've only truly known one another for a very short while, but Santana can tell, even though Brittany's taking pains not to show it, that something's bothering her friend. "Anything that makes you this upset is definitely not stupid."

Santana's expects her words to calm Brittany down but instead she's alarmed when Brittany merely sobs loudly and cries into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Brittany manages through her tears. "I'm not usually this emotional. And I'm ruining your suit."

"It's okay," Santana says, rubbing gentle circles along Brittany's spine. "Blue's not really my color anyway."

This time, Brittany's response is completely expected as she laughs wetly, the chuckle slipping out in spite of her tears. "You blend in with this room perfectly, though."

Santana nods, surveying the surroundings. "Agreed," she murmurs, still holding onto Brittany. "This room looks like a giant teapot."

Brittany's laugh rings out again and Santana relaxes just a little bit, pleased to have calmed her for a while. She tries prying once more. "Do you want to tell me what's upsetting you now?"

Brittany finally steps back fully, allowing a foot of space between them before she answers. "How do you know if someone's cheating on you?"

Santana's pretty sure the room just shrunk by about ten feet or so.

"What?" she asks, hoping maybe she heard wrong.

"I mean, hypothetically, if you were with someone and you'd thought they were cheating, what warning signs would you look for?" Brittany expounds.

Santana's so not ready for this conversation if it's going where she thinks it's going. Her mind starts to race with the possibilities and implications.

"I don't…Brittany, what are you asking me?"

Brittany pauses, looks Santana directly in the eye before speaking. "I think Sam is cheating on me."

Brittney lets the statement hang in the air, and she watches Santana, waiting for her reaction and response.

Santana stands firm. "Brittany, that's preposterous," she says. "He, Sam…the President loves you."

"That doesn't mean he's not cheating," Brittany fires back.

"Britt-"

"He's done it before," Brittany says, cutting Santana off. "Earlier on, during the election campaign…you can't tell anyone about this."

"Of course not," Santana says, shaking her head.

"But, he cheated on me then," Brittany says sadly, staring at the patterns on the wall. "I always knew something was different…he was quieter around me, more subdued. And then he told me. Sometimes…sometimes I wish he hadn't you know?" Brittany blinks, focusing her attention back on Santana. "If he hadn't told me then I'd never have to deal with any of this. I wouldn't have this lack of trust in me. Ignorance being bliss and all that."

Santana swallows, not quite knowing what to say. "Brittany," she tries, continuing when the woman doesn't cut her off this time, "Sam was an idiot to cheat on you, okay? But that was the past and you two have obviously gotten beyond it or you wouldn't still be with him, right?"

Brittany laughs, though it sounds somewhat bitter to Santana's ears. "Yeah. We worked it out," she says and Santana's brow furrows in response. "You know, I've always wondered what she looked like. Like, was she prettier than me or…or smarter. What was it about me, what was I missing that he had to go and find somewhere else, with someone else?"

Santana doesn't let on.

She's practiced at subduing her initial reaction, practiced at taking in information and weighing the pros and cons in her mind before formulating a calculated response.

It's almost second nature.

"Brittany," Santana starts, her tone very serious, "I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You are a very brilliant, very beautiful, kind woman and Sam was an idiot to risk losing that for any reason, okay?" She steps forward, taking Brittany gently yet firmly by the shoulders. "I'll get to the bottom of whatever's going on, now."

"Santana, you can't-"

"I can. And I will," Santana stops her protests. "Sam and I go back a ways so I can talk to him. Besides, you're my friend now and I don't like seeing my friends upset."

Brittany manages a small smile before whispering something Santana doesn't quite catch, mostly because Brittany's still talking to and looking at the floor. "Hmm?" she asks.

Brittany takes a shaky breath in before looking up, the puffy red around her eyes making the blue there pop even more so. "You're my best friend, Santana."

She takes Santana's hands from her shoulders and wraps them delicately around her waist, her own arms then moving to do the same. "Thank you," she whispers, her mouth so close to Santana's ear that the brunette both feels and hears the words.

"You're welcome, Britt."

* * *

Jacob's shaking like a schoolboy getting his first look at 3-D tits.

Yes, he'd love to move up in Washington but the vagueness of this particular errand seems like something he's seen on the _Sopranos_.

He goes to table number six, as instructed and sits down slowly, keeping his eyes peeled as he surveys the relatively crowded restaurant.

* * *

Puck watches from across the room, sitting casually at the diner counter and nursing a cup of coffee he won't bother refilling.

A second or so after the kid with the fro sits down, another kid, hoodie pulled low over his eyes walks up next to the table.

Now, Puck waits.

* * *

"Traffic wasn't too bad I hope," the man says, scanning the rest of the diner's patrons liberally.

Jacob jumps, recognizing the code words. "Not at all, just a couple of red lights."

Pleased with his response, the young man sits down, his movements brisk and jittery. "So, I assume you've brought the goods," he asks, not making eye contact.

Jacob swallows. "I'm here to see what you have to offer."

"That's not how this works," the guy laughs, eyes jumping around from face to face to face.

"That's how it works this time," Jacob states, channeling as much bravado as he can.

* * *

Puck rolls his eyes, his years of expertise making him incredibly adept at reading lips.

The verbal sparring is not going to move things along.

Puck gets up.

* * *

"Look, if you didn't bring anything with you then I can't help you," the strange youngster says, growing uneasy with the length of this meeting.

He'd been informed this would be an in and out kind of deal.

"I need to know what you know first," Jacob states firmly but the kid's had enough, leaping from his booth seat and turning to leave, bumping right into Puck.

Jacob watches horrified as the kid falls forward into the strange man with a mohawk and dressed in an emergency technician's uniform.

"Wha-" he starts to ask but just as quickly he feels a slight pinch to his shoulder, everything going black afterwards.

* * *

"Ambassador Flannagan, while I am greatly appreciative of your country's support, I sincerely doubt I could get everyone on board with National Potato Day," Sam says, looking directly at the big screen hanging over his desk.

Rory Flannagan looks almost outraged…or gassy. It's actually pretty difficult to tell the difference. "Why ever not? Have you Americans an aversion to the potato?"

"Not exactly, we're just not too big on dedicating a day to a cash crop? Now, national potato chip day? That I could totally sell," Sam muses aloud, already bored of the conversation.

"Potato chip?!" Rory near screeches.

"I'm sorry Mr. President," Sam's aide interrupts, opening the office door without knocking, "But ther-"

"President Evans, are you busy?" Santana says, bustling past the young woman with little regard for her presence.

"Actually I-"

"Great," Santana cuts him off, "Then we have time to talk." She turns and gets a glimpse at the screen. "Oh, Ambassador Flannagan, I didn't know you were out and about again? And, would you look at that; it's two in the afternoon and you're still borderline sober. Someone's slacking."

Rory looks nervous. "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. President."

The screen goes blank and Sam lets out a breath of relief. "Oh, dear God, thank you Santana-"

"Don't thank me yet," Santana says, eyes flashing as she looks back at him. "Tell your little minion to vamoose."

Sam's eyes dart to the door where his aide is still waiting patiently for instruction. "Maybe I need her here-"

"Fine," Santana says, "So when are you guys going to tell Bobby the tru-"

"On the other hand, Suzy, could you give us a minute?" Sam says quickly, cutting Santana off.

"Right, Mr. President," the young aide nods, cutting her eyes at Santana one last time before exiting.

The minute the door closes, Sam jumps out of his seat. "What the hell is your problem?"

"What the hell is yours?" Santana fires back. "One of the caveats of our little deal is that you kept Mr. Happy out of other people's fun boxes."

Sam looks even more confused. "What?"

"The other was that you tell Brittany the truth about what happened," Santana continues.

"Why are you talking about all of this?"

"Why doesn't Brittany know who you cheated on her with?"

That seems to take all the fight out of Sam and he slowly sinks back down into his chair. "What?" he whispers.

"You heard me," Santana snaps. "What? Did you think I wouldn't find out? You were supposed to tell her Sam."

"I know," Sam interrupts, "I know I was. But…I…I couldn't. I couldn't hurt her any more than I already had."

"So, you…what, you thought you'd keep it a secret forever?" Santana nearly hisses. "I know that everyone else likes to downplay Brittany's intelligence but I know you know better. You didn't think she'd put two and two together? That she wouldn't figure out that maybe the chick you made a baby with…" Santana trails off, something suddenly occurring to her. "Does Brittany know about Bobby?"

"What?" Sam says more than asks. "Of course she knows about Bobby, Santana. What kind of man do you think I am?"

"Unfortunately, the kind of man that's perfect for politics," Santana spits out, but something's not adding up, "What exactly does Brittany know about Bobby?"

"Look, I'll tell Brittany about Mercedes, okay? I'll tell her the truth," Sam says. "Will that get you off my back?"

"Possibly," she says. "Is it over?"

"Is what over?" Sam feigns ignorance, if only to buy himself a little time.

"Don't be stupid. I told you to end it, Sam."

"It's ended, okay?" Sam says, somewhat defensively. "Even if I wanted to continue it, Mercedes wouldn't allow it."

"Good for her," Santana says, straightening up her shoulders. "Look, Sam, I've said this to you once before. You don't marry someone if you're going to cheat on her. And if you marry her, you don't cheat. End of."

Sam leans back in his chair, fixing her with a gaze so serious that Santana almost forgets her authoritative stance – almost.

"I'm a decent man, Santana. A sinner, I'll give you that but I'm a decent man. I never wanted to hurt anyone," Sam says, swallowing down the emotion the best he can. "But…sometimes…God, it's the timing. It's always about the timing. If I'd have waited a year or two to run for office, if I'd have never met Brittany…" he trails off, shaking his head. "It's always about the timing."

Santana feels something inside her tremble, his words resonating for some reason but she shakes it off.

"Tell Brittany the truth, Sam," Santana says, turning to leave him. "I'll know if you don't."

* * *

"Wh-what?" Jacob jump-starts awake. "Where am I?"

"Relax," Rachel says, mopping his brow or attempting to until Jacob swats her away.

"Who are you?"

Rachel just sighs, rolling her eyes as she throws the towel down onto the couch. "Next time you drug somebody, Puck, you're bringing them back to."

Puck just grunts, standing against the wall.

"You drugged me?!"

* * *

"Who hired you?"

"Who cut your hair?"

"What is it that you know?"

"Where'd you get those shoes?"

The young man's head swivels back and forth as the guy and lady Ping-Pong him with query after query.

Sugar, still wearing her EMT uniform, gets right up in his face. "You look like you haven't bathed for days but you don't smell like it," she says, squinting at his face. "And your pores are super clear."

"Sugar," Artie sighs, pulling her back. "That's weird."

Finally, after a long, confusing moment, Santana steps forward.

"Ryder Lynn, former football prodigy from Lima, Ohio. Junior at Georgetown University majoring in Political Science. Good luck with that. Mother calls you 'Ry' when you're good, which is cute, I have to say. In high school, you were mistakenly involved in a virtual relationship with a woman who letter turned out to be a transsexual," she rattles off all in a row, watching with little interest the growing surprise and alarm crossing the boys' features.

"Who are you?" Ryder asks after another moment.

"Irrelevant," Santana answers dismissively. "But I'm Santana Lopez a.k.a. your potential worst nightmare if you don't answer my next question truthfully."

Ryder gulps.

"Now that I have your full attention Mr. Ryder Lynn," she starts, still calm and collected, "Who. Are. You. Working. For?"


	5. Boss

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the reviews guys. I appreciate the feedback greatly so keep it coming. Special shout out to my best homie for helping me with a certain segment of this story. Also, any mistakes and grammatical errors are my own so apologies in advance for them. Thanks for reading and have a nice week!

* * *

**Boss**

"Now, Mr. Ryder Lynn, who-are-you-working-for?"

Ryder takes a steadying breath. "I don't know."

"Liar!" Sugar shouts out forcefully, throwing all of her body weight behind the action of slamming her hands on the large oak table. A move that, unsurprisingly, causes the other three sets of eyes to look at her. "Sorry," she says sweetly.

Another moment passes and Sugar shrugs at their waiting looks. "What? It wasn't Asperger's that time."

Santana turns back to Ryder, easily jumping back into action. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know," Ryder insists. "I'd gotten out of work as usual and when I got back to my apartment there was a yellow envelope with directions to a location in it, telling me to be there at 8PM."

"So, you make a hobby of following anonymous instructions do you?" Santana asks, leaning back against the table with a smirk.

Ryder grimaces, only this time in shame. "There was also a white envelope full of money," he admits. " I was supposed to get another payment after the meeting. Look, I needed the money. I'm trying to make it out here and since you know everything about me already, I'm sure you know I don't make a lot of cash."

Santana holds up her hand in the middle of Ryder's rant, then closes it, signaling for him to stop talking and Ryder, smartly, obeys.

Artie and Sugar standby patiently and wait for instruction while Santana pinches the bridge of her nose in thought.

"Okay," she finally says after a few moments have passed, "Whoever required his services knew he'd be hard up for money, obviously, was close enough to know his work schedule so as to stash the envelopes, and would have had access to a reasonable amount of funds because $5,000 is not something to dismiss."

Ryder's jaw drops. "How did you know…I didn't say anything about the amount of money."

"Are you even serious right now, guy?" Santana asks him rhetorically. "You've been abducted and interrogated by a group of persons with which you are extremely unfamiliar but who know enough about you we could pass for lifelong friends, like the fact that your favorite color was yellow until your cousin Justin called you a Richard Simmons for a year for it. You've observed all of this and you somehow think that I'd be incapable of figuring out how much you were on the take for?"

"Well, when you put it like that-"

"Anyway," Santana ignores him again, addressing her team, "He's completely useless to us unless whoever contracted him in the first place makes contact again."

Artie nods. "Should we sit on him?"

Santana thinks on it. "Nah, let's keep him here. Puck's been getting antsy. He needs something to play with."

"Wait, what?" Ryder asks alarmed.

"What about the weird Jewish dude outside?" Sugar asks. "And before you make some preachy comment about political correctness, _Artie_, I only called him that because he insists on it. I think it's his last name of something."

"We can cut him loose," Santana says dismissively. "He won't say anything. He's Mercedes' errand boy. Have Puck drop him off though. Just for a quick chat." She throws her office jacket back on. "Make sure Mr. Lynn eats, okay? I don't want another Ben Travis incident."

"Okay, I'll spare a tic-tac or two," Sugar says. "Where are you going though?"

"Home," Santana says simply. "I haven't been there in days."

* * *

"_Good Morning everyone_," Mercedes says, addressing the many members of the press and media that are assembled now, awaiting the President and First Lady. "_Thank you for coming out on this chilly morning. We're really excited to make the announcement, so without further preamble, I present to you the First Lady and President of these United States._"

Santana turns up the volume on her television, sitting with her legs folded underneath her body as she indulges in her cup of coffee. This is her favorite part of the morning, the moments before the day truly gets going, and she relaxes back against her plush sofa, luxuriating in the peace and comfort of it.

There's a brief delay, but very soon, after a quick intervention from Mercedes, the White House doors are opening.

"_And here comes the President and First Lady now," _the news anchor announces as Sam and Brittany walk out of the front door together, waving and smiling at the cameras and the crowd gathered on the lawn.

"_She looks radiant, Ann," _comments a reporter on the field._ "Glowing."_

"_Indeed. Although, I don't think there's ever a time when she's not."_

Santana smiles at that, but immediately picks up on the strained distance between Brittany and her husband on screen. Sam leans over to whisper in her ear and she leans back slightly, whispering something quick in return as the pair continues to smile and wave at the audience. Sam leans over again a second later, except Brittany doesn't respond this time, instead hesitating for a moment before extending her hand. Sam takes it quickly and Santana isn't sure, but she thinks he masks a sigh of relief as he does. Watching from the sidelines, Mercedes looks away.

Santana feels a pang in her heart. Sam must've finally told her the truth.

"_I know Secretary Jones did this already but I'd like to personally thank you all for coming out this morning_," Brittany says, her smile blindingly white and a mile wide. "_It's not very often that a First Lady garners this much attention for a simple announcement. As you all know, one of my first loves, aside from education and physical fitness, is dance. And since Sam was elected President, I've been trying to decide on a platform that would allow me to share my love of dance with the American people…_"

Intrigued, Santana tilts her head to the side. Brittany hadn't mentioned anything about a new program to her.

Mercedes steps forward, subtly gesturing for Sam to step closer to Brittany, instead of hanging back like he currently is. Sam takes her cue with a slight nod, though still maintaining an air of deference. Sensing Sam's presence closer, Brittany takes a beat before continuing.

"_Well, today, I'm here to announce the launch of Dance USA, a national program geared towards teaching, encouraging, and promoting the art of dance to any American who is interested."_

Brittany pauses again, unblinking as numerous camera flashes go off. "_I'm extremely excited about it. We're going to work in collaboration with popular television outlets like _Dancing Dangerously_, _Celebrity Shake-Off_, and _Breakdance or Boogie _to try and get our population moving again, but in a fun way._"

Mercedes smiles when she steps forward after Brittany's concluded her speech, opening the floor up for questions.

Santana watches proudly as Brittany handles the press with ease and confidence, not looking to Mercedes or Sam for assistance even once. And sure, she assumes that's probably because Brittany abhors the pair at the moment, but Santana still thinks she's handling things admirably nonetheless.

* * *

Mercedes follows Brittany and Sam until they all reach the study adjacent to the Oval office, promptly closing the door before the secret servicemen can follow them inside.

"Hey, you can't lock us out," Jake calls through the door.

"It's a matter of national security," Kitty adds, jiggling the handle.

"You nosy bums just hold tight for a few seconds," Mercedes pops her head out to say. "You know we're not doing anything untoward in here."

She closes the door again and Jake looks at Kitty and shrugs.

"Yeah," Kitty sighs, stubbing her toe against the carpeted floor, "But we miss out on all the juicy gossip."

Sam feels incredibly uncomfortable right now; he's literally in the middle of a triangle because, at the moment, he, Brittany, and Mercedes are all spread across the room and angled to one another.

Brittany won't even look at him and Mercedes is studying her clipboard like it's the last thing she'll ever do.

His loosened tie feels a lot like a noose all of a sudden.

"Well," Mercedes finally says after a long moment, eyeing each of them in turn, "That didn't suck too badly."

Sam sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "I'm doing the best that I can."

"I know _you_ are," Mercedes says, fixing her gaze on Brittany.

Brittany taps her foot against the carpet, leaning back heavily against the desk situated behind her. "Look, I can't help the way I feel."

"I know you can't," Mercedes says, swallowing against the knot in her throat. "I know you probably can't stand to be in this room with us right now-"

Brittany's head snaps up, her eyes zeroing in on Mercedes. "It's not you, Mercedes," Brittany's quick to say, her tone and face morphing as she turns her attention to Sam and points a thumb in his direction, "It's _him_."

Mercedes startles a bit, though she doesn't let on, her eyes finding Sam's in gratitude even though she immediately feels guilty for it.

"Look, it's my problem, obviously," Brittany says, letting loose a long sigh. "It's something I have to work through on my own before I can even begin to address it with him. I just…I really need my space."

"Of course," Mercedes nods. "You can take all the time you need, Britt. I'll handle everything else."

Brittany smiles, unknowing of how much anguish she's causing her friend in doing so. "Thanks Mercedes."

Brittany leaves then, never sparing Sam a glance as she goes.

Sam waits until the door is closed before speaking. "I guess I should be thanking you as well."

"You have no idea how much you owe me, boy," Mercedes says, keeping their distance.

"What did you say to her?"

"That you're a low-down dirty dog," Mercedes says sharply, delighting a little in the dejected look that etches itself across Sam's face. "But then I told her that all men were. Just, some are more doggish than others like my great aunt Mae used to say."

Sam smiles a little, fiddling with the band on his left finger. "And which category do I fall under? Doggish or more doggish?"

Mercedes doesn't smile though. She just looks at him tiredly. "Sam, why didn't you just tell her the whole truth?"

"I can't do that, Mercedes," Sam says quietly, his eyes downcast. "I don't want to hurt-""

"She's going to get hurt regardle-"

"You," Sam finishes, effectively shutting Mercedes up. He takes a step towards her. "I already hurt Brittany the minute I took those vows and had doubts about whether or not I could honor them. I don't want you to get hurt, Mercedes."

Mercedes hugs her clipboard to her chest. "It's far too late for that, Mr. President," she says, infusing her voice with as much conviction as she can muster.

Sam reaches out for her arm, "Mercedes-"

"No," Mercedes interrupts, pulling back. "Now I guilted that girl into standing by you, into staying the course for you because you're what's best for this country. Because you're a decent man, in spite of your shortcomings when it comes to personal morality. But a decent man wouldn't do this. A decent man would not lie to his wife – because that's who she is Sam, Brittany's your _wife_. You made your decision about me a long time ago. It is time to _move on _and _get_ your _shit_ together."

* * *

Santana rarely has the day off, and technically, with how many texts and phone calls she's answering, she isn't really having one now, but on the rare occasion or two, she allows herself a day of reprieve; a day of relaxation, meditation, and, if she happens to find a willing and attractive participant, orgasmic stimulation.

So that's what she's planning on doing today – minus the orgasms…unless, nah. She intends to enjoy her exquisitely decorated apartment with its full stock of expensive wines and forget about all the other things swirling around in her mind, at least for a little while.

Well, that's the plan anyway. But she's having a hard time executing it because every ten minutes just brings her back to that press conference today, to Brittany standing and overlooking the rose garden.

She'd looked so at peace and happy – and to anyone else, she doubts it'd be obvious – but Santana can see through the façade and she knows that something definitely went down.

It's funny that her primary concern, the one person she's being paid to look after, is the furthest from her mind while his wife takes up permanent residence on her persons to care for list.

Very funny indeed.

She's stirred from her thoughts by her home phone ringing which both alarms and confuses her because a) she's not even sure _she _knows her home phone number let alone anyone else and two…well no, that's just about it.

Her concern grows even more when she realizes the call is blocked and while Santana typically doesn't answer blocked calls, but she's particularly glad she does this time.

"Hello?"

"_Hi buddy_," Brittany's voice trills across the line and Santana's smile is wide across her face in an instant.

"Hey you," she says, sinking back against her couch as her body relaxes again. "I almost didn't answer this phone."

"_Because it was blocked_?" Brittany guesses. "_You should've known it was me. Who else would have to hide their number from you_?"

Santana's mind formulates a list so long and so fast, it's scary. But she doesn't dare share that with Brittany. "You're right," Santana says. "Anyway, why are you calling me at home? You've still got my cell number don't you?"

"_I do. I just wanted to make sure you were at home_."

Santana quirks an eyebrow. "O…kay," she drawls.

Brittany laughs and Santana can detect a hint of shyness. "_Yeah, because I thought maybe I could come over_."

"To my place?"

"_Yeah_," Brittany says. "_Is that okay_?"

Santana scans her apartment quickly, taking in its appearance; but apparently even that takes too long for Brittany.

"_Okay, sorry. This is weird, I know_."

"No, Brittany. It's fine. I…yeah, you can come over. I mean, I'm okay with it," Santana rushes to say. "But, like, is it safe to?"

"_Oh, the men and women in black follow me to the bathroom, Santana_," Brittany says, making Santana laugh. "_Who knew automatic flushing toilets were so dangerous_?"

"I didn't," Santana chuckles.

"_So…_" Brittany says, trailing off cutely, "_...I'll see you tonight_?"

"I'll be waiting," Santana assures her, laughing when Brittany whispers a quiet – but not really – 'yes' before leaving her with a quick 'See you soon'.

* * *

"Oh, Mr. President."

Sam, after such a crappy morning, is not in the mood to deal with anyone, let alone Sue Sylvester but he screws on a grin anyway, turning toward her voice as he navigates through one of the many White House halls.

"Judge Sylvester," he says grandly, aware of the eyes and ears always attentive when he's around, "It's good to see you again."

"You lie worse than a Armenian used car salesman," Sue says with a smirk. "Key word being Armenian there," she adds with a wink.

"You know what Sue," Sam says, tired of her presence already, "I'm really busy. Have a couple of briefings to attend so if you don't mind-"

"Oh I don't mind," she says with a casual shrugs, "Besides, you should enjoy it while it lasts."

"Enjoy what while it lasts?"

"Your Presidency," she says off-handedly. "Hey, you know what's worse than being a one-term president? Nothing. It's like America had a one-night stand that just kept hanging around and wouldn't take the hint so they just chose the next random person to glom on to just to be rid of the loser. You're going to be that loser, Mr. Evans."

"That's Mr. President to you," Sam says, used to her barbs.

"For now," Sue acknowledges. "Until then, I'll just bide my time and then I'll be on the nation's highest bench, undoing all the crap you've done to this country. Gay marriage and gun control," Sue sneers. "Bah. We're like a nation of sexually confused hippies."

Sam just blinks at her. "Have a good day, Judge Sylvester," he says, dismissing her as he goes about his business.

Her words haven't shaken him, not in the least.

In fact, it's strengthened his resolve.

This morning, he was prepared to step down from his post after his term is up. Then he'll be able to live the life he's wanted – with Mercedes. And Brittany won't have to pretend to enjoy the life she's living, free to make her own choices and follow her own path – the way she deserves.

But now?

Now, he's determined to finish what he's started.

* * *

Santana is so excited to see Brittany that she completely forgets about the press conference until, of course, Brittany's apparently waiting in her complex's lobby.

It's only then that she remembers that she was contracted by Sam to cover up his illustrious affair with his press secretary that yielded a child and that, though unknowingly, she'd kept this information from Brittany and that perhaps, that topic of conversation may be what Brittany's decided to talk to her about.

Yeah, it completely slipped her mind.

But now that she's thought about it, she's nervous as hell, and nauseous, and contemplating jumping out of her living room window and shimmying down the fire escape.

_**KNOCK KNOCK**_

Damn, too late.

"Who is it?"

_**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK**_

Santana rolls her eyes.

She forgot; they don't speak.

"Come on in," Santana says, pulling open her apartment door and allowing the agents to perform their mandatory sweep of the complex.

"Secure," one of them says into his microphone and then Brittany's being ushered inside, the wide smile on her face putting Santana at ease.

"I think your doorman just peed his pants," she says instead of a greeting and it's such a Brittany thing to say that Santana just bursts out into nearly maniacal giggles.

"It's good to see you," Brittany says, walking toward her and opening her arms up for a hug. "You have no idea how sucky today has been and…well, it's just really nice to see a friend," she whispers into Santana's ear.

"It's good to see you too, Britt," Santana says, leaning her cheek against Brittany's shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut on their own accord.

It's only when the secret service men give one another a look that she thinks to let go, pulling back enough to look Brittany in the face.

Her smile falters a little when she sees the dim look passing behind Brittany's eyes. "Hey, what's wro-"

"We'll get to that soon enough," Brittany says, shaking her head and forcing a smile. "Right now, I want a tour of this fabulous apartment."

"Okay," Santana nods, feeling a little off put as one of the guards smirks at her obvious fluster. "But do they have to stay?"

"Nope," Brittany says. "I was just getting ready to dismiss them. Just wait outside the front door, boys."

"But Mrs.-"

"That's an order," Brittany says archly, raising an authoritative eyebrow and the men immediately obey.

Brittany turns her attention back to Santana with a smug grin. "Alright. So let's get to this tour."

* * *

"Oh my God," Brittany gasps, lifting the photo album high in the air.

Santana's not sure how touring turned into Brittany rummaging through her photo album but it has.

Actually, she's pretty sure it started with Brittany's fascination with Santana's framed family photo that's sitting on her desk, but why they're still looking at pictures she'll never know.

"Britt, give it," Santana says, trying to grab the book from the taller woman but Brittany merely stretches back over the couch, keeping the album and the photo of a toddler Santana taking a kitchen sink bath at a distance.

"You look so adorable," Brittany gushes, fending Santana off with one hand easily, "Smiling with like, two teeth in your mouth."

Santana feels her face heat up embarrassingly so. "This is so humiliating."

"Why?" Brittany laughs, especially when Santana coves her face with her hands. She pulls them away from her face. "How can you look at this picture and be embarrassed? You're a cutie."

"I was chubby."

"Excuse me?" Brittany says. "It's called baby fat."

"And my hair was a mess."

"It's wet and curly," Brittany shrugs, looking over the picture. "It's like a Jheri curl."

"And I'm naked."

"Yep," Brittany nods, cutting her eyes over to Santana. "That baby fat sure has settled in some interesting places."

Santana gasps and Brittany just laughs, flipping the page in the album. "Who's this?"

Santana peers over, focusing on the picture Brittany's pointing at. "Oh, that's me and my abuela – my grandma," she says quietly.

"Oh," Brittany nods, feeling the shift in the atmosphere but not knowing what to attribute it to. "You two look close."

"We were," Santana says with a sigh, her fingers tracing along the edge of the photo. Brittany's hand follows a similar path until she's holding onto Santana's, her hand covering Santana's smaller one.

"Is she an angel now?" Brittany softly asks.

"Oh, no," Santana says, laughing a little through her nose. "She's very much alive. We just…aren't really that close anymore," she explains, keeping her eyes down.

Santana can feel Brittany's stare on her face but she doesn't want to talk about it, at least not now, so she extricates her hand and turns the page, clearing her throat.

Brittany lets it go.

"I think I've had…way too much wine," Santana announces, plopping back down onto the couch after having deposited their wine glasses in the kitchen.

Brittany smiles, hugging her knees to her chest as she rests her cheek along the back of Santana's couch. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I just laughed way too long and way too hard at the sound my sink made when the water drained out of it," she says and then laughs again, remembering.

Brittany snorts. "I think you've had too much too."

"Mmhmm," Santana agrees, mirroring Brittany's position on the opposite side of the couch, except she's got her legs stretched out, leaving the pair just looking at one another.

It's comfortable, and it stays that way, even when Brittany stretches her long limbs out and pokes Santana in the ribs with a sock covered toe.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," Santana says back, blinking slowly.

"I…" Brittany swallows, gathering her bearings, "I think I'm ready to talk now."

But before she can get going, Santana's damn cell phone goes off, interrupting the moment.

"Crap," Santana grumbles, reaching for the offending device. "Just…let me answer this real quick, Britt. Minute max, I promise."

Brittany smiles at Santana's obvious annoyance. "Okay."

"What?" Santana says, not even caring about pleasantries – or looking at the caller ID.

"_How wet are you right now_?"

Santana nearly swallows her tongue. "What?" she squeaks out.

"_Because I'm really wet and it's all because I'm thinking about you_."

It takes a moment for Santana to place the voice but when she does her spine goes rigid. She casts a quick glance toward Brittany who looks intrigued, and somewhat amused.

"_I'm thinking about your mouth, kissing up my thighs and going higher and higher and higher_-"

Santana mutes her end of the phone call. "Hey Britt, I'm going to go take this in the kitchen. Be right back."

"Okay," Brittany says, her smiles definitely amused now.

Santana's sure her face is red.

She quickly pads over to the kitchen, trying to keep her voice calm and even but all that really accomplishes is turning her voice into a hiss.

"Holly are you out of your goddamn mind?"

Holly's laughter barks out. "_What? Not up for a little night time nookie_?"

"You're insane," Santana breathes.

"_Nope, just horny_," Holly says. "_Let me up_."

"What?"

"_Buzz me up, fool. Your doorman's acting like such a prick tonight by the way. He's all, I'm sorry Ms. Holliday, but Ms. Lopez cannot accept visitors at this time_."

"Holly, you can't come up here."

"_Why? Are you seriously going to pull that whole 'I need a real relationship' thing because it's getting old_?"

"I have company," Santana says simply, feeling like an idiot for smiling when she says it.

"_Right on. The more the merrier. Is it that red-head from Seattle because I have to admit, I was a little jealous when I saw her at the White House thing with you_."

"Holly, I'm hanging up now."

"_Let me up_."

"No," Santana says forcefully. "Goodbye."

Ending the call, Santana takes a moment to collect herself before heading back toward the living room.

When she gets there Brittany's still wearing that anonymous, curious grin.

"Sorry about that, Britt," she says, sitting back down.

"It's not a problem," Brittany says, still smiling. "So, how's your beau doing?"

Santana freezes.

There are so many things about that question that are just so glaringly wrong that her body legit stops moving.

"What?"

"On the phone?" Brittany says, a twinkle in her eye. "That was your guy wasn't it? And don't even try to lie to me. You started blushing like a schoolyard girl, which I didn't think was possible with your skin tone."

Santana lets loose a halting laugh, shaking her head and, much to her own disbelief, turning shy on her friend. "It…it wasn't anyone important."

"You're such a horrible liar," Brittany crows, diving across the couch and grabbing Santana's hand enthusiastically. "Okay, now you have to dish. It's like in the best friend codebook."

Santana shakes her head, hesitant.

Stupidly hesitant when she really thinks about it, after all Brittany's always publically stood on the side of gay rights, but, as she's found out with a lot of former friends, it's always easier to be supportive of something from a distance.

It's a lot more difficult when it affects you personally.

She doesn't want to come out and have her newfound friendship forever tarnished, finding herself constantly having to hide the details of her romantic life from Brittany because it would make the other woman uncomfortable.

That would suck.

"Please?" Brittany begs. "Come on. I told you how boring my life is. I need someone to live vicariously thorough," she continues, eyes sparkling. "Enter you."

"It was just this…" Santana starts, choosing her words carefully, "…woman I went out with a couple of weeks ago."

Santana watches Brittany's face, waiting for some kind of reaction but Brittany only blinks, smile never faltering.

"Oh," she says, "So, is she hot?"

Maybe Santana's hearing things.

"What?" Santana blinks.

"I'm sorry," Brittany says, assuming she's offended Santana. "That was completely shallow. Besides," she adds, a little quieter, "Who am I kidding? She's obviously hot."

"Wait, wait, wait," Santana says, trying to wrap her mind around what's happening and hoping the stress of her job has not finally gotten to her, "I just told you my date was a woman."

"I know."

"And…you don't have a problem with that?" Santana's almost loathe to ask. She doesn't know why she's not just leaving well enough alone.

"Of course not," Brittany says, giving Santana a confused look. "Why would I? I mean, I _am_ bi-corn. I like guys and girls. Well, not anymore sine I'm married. Now, I only like one guy. But, between me and you, if that Naya Rivera ever looks my way…"

Santana smile grows slowly throughout Brittany's little rant and she even chuckles a little with relief, "Your secret's safe with me."

"Okay. Well now that you know I'm not a homophobic buttface can you answer my question?" Brittany asks, adding a clarifier at Santana's perplexed look. "Is she hot?"

Santana laughs when Brittany wiggles her eyebrows.

"She was alright," Santana says with a shrug and Brittany scoffs, poking her with her toe again.

"Okay. Your girl talk needs some serious work."

* * *

Jacob Ben Israel blinks a little when the blindfold is finally lifted off of his face, Puck stalling the car alongside some nondescript corner store.

"Here," Puck says simply, giving Jacob back his glasses.

"Thank you," Jacob squeaks, putting them on quickly. "And thanks for not drugging me this time."

"Don't thank me. Thank my low supply," Puck says, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. "I know where to find you."

Jacob swallows. "I know that."

"So, yesterday?"

"Never happened," Jacob finishes.

Puck smiles. "Good boy. Now, get out."

"Can I ask one question though?"

"Go ahead."

"Why'd you blindfold me when you know I know where Santana's office is located?"

Puck cracks a rugged grin. "Blindfolds are fun."

Jacob reaches for the car door handle. "You're a little creepy, dude."

Not uttering another word, Puck unlocks the car doors not even waiting until Jacob's cleared the passenger door before speeding off so fast the door slams shut on its own.

Looking around, Jake waits until he's sure the car is gone before producing a small, microscopic device from the cuff of his Oxford shirt.

Pressing the lone button visible on it, he waits until it rings before bringing it up to his ear.

"_Jacob_," a woman's voice answers.

"They took the bait," Jacob says, still keeping an eye out for Puck.

"_And Ryder_?"

"Still detained. But they're nowhere near you, boss."

"_Excellent_," the woman says. "_You may have a place in Washington yet_."


	6. A Natural Disaster: Comes To Light

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Hey guys, since we're approaching the mid-point of the story, I'd like to hear from those of you who haven't hit me up yet. If you don't want the review to be public you can PM me but I just want to know where everyone's interest level is. If not, don't worry about it. Just thought I'd ask. To those of you who are consistently reviewing, thank you. It helps a lot when a writer gets stuck from time to time to get feedback on what's working and what's not working with a particular story. It makes the writer's block struggles that much more easy. Okay, well here's the new chapter. This one is more like a part one of two chapters because I had to split them up. You'll see what I mean when I post the next chapter next time. To those of you with many questions and not very many answers, be patient. All will be revealed in time.

* * *

**Chapter Six: A Natural Disaster – Comes To Light**

"_And now, here's Will Schuester with the weather forecast. It's not looking too good out there, Will."_

"_Right you are, Cameron. And I'm afraid it's only going to get worse," Will blows up the Doppler radar behind him, highlighting a massive green formation dead center of the map. "You see this accumulation moving in from the West? It's a collection of very large thunderstorms and it could bring as much as twenty inches of rainfall, more rain than Superstorm Julio generated three years ago." Will stops here and looks directly into the camera. "In short folks, if you don't have to go outdoors, don't."_

* * *

"Mr. Vice President," an aide addresses and Finn nods at him, determined not to let anything deter him from his task.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President," another person addresses and Finn smiles, waving his fingers.

"Hi. Can't talk right now," he says briskly, quickening his pace.

A few moments later, he's finally reached his destination, slipping inside the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

"Well?" Sam asks, looking up at him expectantly. Him and the other four faces in the room.

"I'm busting my butt, Sam," Finn says. "I swear I am. But everybody's worried about the storm and about his or her families. They're ready to shut down."

"No," Sam erupts; hitting the long table they're all seated at with a closed fist. "We're too close to blow this."

"Look Mr. President," Kurt speaks up, folding his hands neatly along the tabletop. "We're not going to lose a lot of traction if Congress locks down now. You can ride the momentum from the way you handled that Texas oil refinery accident."

Sam shakes his head, mulling it over. "It has to be now. If we wait, they'll just come up with another reason as to why everybody needs a gun. This has to go down, today."

"Mr. President," Mercedes finally speaks up. She softens her voice a little when he doesn't respond. "Sam, you can't force them to make a vote."

"The hell I can't," Sam says angrily, standing up. "Finn, you tell those Republican assholes if they ever want to serve in another political office again to get their asses down to the Capitol building and pass this legislature damn it."

"Where are you going?" Mercedes asks when Sam makes a move for the door.

Sam re-buttons his suit jacket. "I've got some motivating to do."

* * *

Santana is still shaking off rain droplets when she gets to her office door, her umbrella doing very little to stave off the torrential downpour.

She wouldn't even be back here if it weren't for the 911 text from Rachel.

She'd much rather be at home to be perfectly honest – waiting for Brittany to call.

Since that night when Brittany'd come over, they've been speaking and hanging out on a much more consistent basis, chatting about anything and everything.

Brittany hasn't brought up what initially upset her that day and Santana's not going to be the one to pry it out of her. Besides, whatever it was doesn't seem to be troubling Brittany now as far as Santana can tell so Santana's just going to count it as water under the bridge.

"Jesus fucking Christ, who the hell opened the floodgates," she murmurs, shaking out her umbrella as she opens the office door, only to find her whole team standing and looking at her somberly. She's pretty used to seeing the look on Puck but the other three looking so forlorn is a bit disconcerting. "What's the emergency?" she asks breathlessly, fearing the worst.

"Um," Artie starts, fidgeting with his glasses. "Yeah, I'm just gonna come out with it. So…the First Lady is here."

Santana's entire demeanor changes, awe washing away her annoyance and trepidation. "Brittany's here?"

"Why are you on a first name basis with the First Lady?" Rachel asks, on Santana's heels as the woman walks to into her personal office. The space is usually closed off to the rest of the team but Santana supposes they were forced to make an exception.

Brittany stands as soon as Santana makes her entrance, her hands wringing together worriedly as she waits in front of Santana's leather couch. "Santana."

Santana eyes the guards standing next to Brittany, making the blonde woman take notice of them again.

"Um, Agent Puckerman, Agent Wilde, can you excuse us please?"

"Of course, First Lady," Jake says, quickly filing out of the office with Kitty following closely behind, the pair making sure to keep close by, taking their respective posts right outside the office door.

Kitty, however, does make sure to close the window blinds that Rachel, Artie and Sugar are trying to nosily peer through.

* * *

Quinn Fabray, having already slipped on her raincoat, opens her office door and is surprised to find Mercedes standing there, a slightly peeved expression on the woman's face.

"He's asking the impossible," is all Quinn says, making a move to pass the Press Secretary but Mercedes, though one to only figuratively throw her weight around, puts her curvaceous figure to good use, preventing the Senator from moving any further.

"Quinn, if there's anyone who can curtail this filibuster, it's you," Mercedes says pleadingly. "You're that lynchpin between the two parties. We need your help."

Quinn sighs, rolling her eyes as she steps back into her office with Mercedes following just after. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"Delay the shutdown," Mercedes says, matter-of-factly.

Quinn's eyes widen. "I…I can't do that. These people have families of their own, you know? Not to mention it's dangerous as hell. What if the storm hits before we can get out?"

"This bill has to pass," Mercedes says, imploring. She looks nearly distraught. "If we wait, it'll never get through and you know it. And he's worked so hard on it…"

Quinn looks on thoughtfully as Mercedes trails off, her own mind working out a plan of execution. She's too self-involved to notice the anguish in Mercedes' eyes, or at least she doesn't recognize it for what it is. "Look, I'll call in a few favors," she finally says, shrugging off the coat. "But that's the best I can do. You guys are going to owe me though. Big time."

"You bet," Mercedes says with a big smile. "Thanks Quinn."

Quinn smiles back, already sifting through her digital rolodex. "Yeah, yeah."

* * *

"I'm sorry I…" Brittany nervously looks around, looking decidedly small in Santana's spacious office, "I don't mean to just show up unannounced like this."

Santana shakes her head, interrupting Brittany's mini-ramble. "Don't. Don't worry about that Brittany. I'm your friend so this is a safe place."

Santana hesitates for a moment, unsure if she should even ask. "What's wrong Brittany?"

Brittany grows pensive. "Why do you think something's wrong?"

"Brittany," Santana says, moving closer to the other woman. Cautiously, she takes Brittany's hands in her own, smiling slowly. "I know we haven't known each other incredibly long but I'd consider myself a shitty friend is I didn't read between the lines."

"Okay," Brittany concedes, nodding slightly. "Okay. If I ask you something will you promise to answer me honestly?"

"Of course," Santana answers instantly. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Even if it involves one of your clients?"

Lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the lamp-lit office.

Santana swallows, her throat going dry.

"You're a fixer," Brittany continues, unhurriedly retracting her hands from Santana's. "You fix problems. Only, that night in the hospital, as far as I know, there weren't any problems…"

Santana gasps. "You saw me?"

Brittany's eyes stay fixed on Santana and the tension between them gets thicker with each passing moment.

Brittany barely nods, her slight head bob imperceptible at best, and Santana looks on as the other woman fists the cuffs of the University of Louisville sweatshirt she's wearing. "What were you doing there, Santana?"

"Brittany," Santana sighs, blinking slowly, "You should talk to the President."

"I'm talking to you," Brittany snaps suddenly, startling Santana.

The blonde sighs and takes a deep breath, relaxing the tense set of her shoulders. "I'm asking you why you were there that night," Brittany practically begs. "Tell me the truth Santana."

Santana hugs her arms to herself, her own palms trailing up and down her arms left bare by the sleeveless blouse she's wearing.

There's a few seconds of silence in which they both just stare at one another, a non-verbal conversation expressing words that don't really have to be said.

"Britt," Santana finally says softly, too softy, and Brittany can't help letting out a partially stifled sob. Her eyes grow wet with tears.

She already knows.

"Oh I'm so sorry, Britt-Britt," Santana breathes, her heart clenching for her friend as Brittany lowers her head, covers her face with her hands.

"I told that idiot to tell you then and there and up until recently I had no idea you didn't know the truth."

Tentatively, Santana reaches out for Brittany but the woman jerks away the moment Santana's fingers make contact, her penetrating stare stealing the breath from Santana's lungs.

"You knew?" Brittany asks breathlessly. Santana's eyes widen. "You knew I didn't know and you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't my place Brittany," Santana tries to say but Brittany's quick, sardonic laugh cuts her off.

"Bullshit Santana," the blonde says, the swearing from her lips sounding foreign to Santana's ears. "You're my _friend_. _Mine_. It was always your place."

Santana tries for Brittany's hand again, tries for one last attempt to make her understand but Brittany pulls away again, her eyes wild with panic.

"I have to get out of here," she says, mostly to herself as she moves toward the office door. "This place is going to be the ruin of me."

"You can't leave D.C. Brittany," Santana tells her, urgency and dread dancing in her voice. "You've got so much established here. There's a life for you here. Besides, where else would you even go?"

Brittany pauses at the door, her fingers already wrapped about the handle, and shrugs. "Somewhere where there are people I can trust."

That said, Brittany finally opens the door, screwing on her best smile. "Agents Wilde, Puckerman," she addresses the guards, "My business here is complete. Shall we leave?"

"Unfortunately that's a negative, Ma'am," Agent Puckerman declares.

"Superstorm Abdul hit while you were in with Ms. Lopez," Kitty further clarifies. "We've been instructed to lock you down."

Brittany just looks at them both, confused. "Meaning…"

"We're not going to be leaving anytime soon, Ma'am." Jake finalizes and the realization hits Brittany hard, her body stumbling towards and then flopping down onto one of the many cushioned chairs sitting about.

She fails to notice the smiling Santana standing in the doorway of her office.

* * *

Sam looks out across the White House lawn, the splatter of raindrops against the window blurring the normally pristine yard until all he sees is a mass of green swaying to and fro in the wind.

In many ways, the storm raging outside is very much like the storm brewing within him. The cold and warm fronts clashing with one another just like the two women who own his heart clash in his mind.

He doesn't know what to do.

Should he spurn Brittany, a woman he's grown to love, for Mercedes, the woman he's _always_ loved?

Sam's not stupid, nor is he selfish.

He knows what ramifications could result from his admittance of the affair – and not just for himself.

Sure, he'd risk losing his national popularity and possibly, this office, but things might reflect negatively for Brittany.

People will question how much, if anything, she knew. The public will destroy her if they decide she was in on the conspiracy and denigrate her if they decided she's lived blindly stupidly for all those years.

There's Mercedes, who, in spite of all the claims Sam will most admirably make in the alternative, will still inevitably and unforgivably be called a home-wrecker. Her political aspirations will burn to ashes and it'll be all his fault.

There's Bobby – who'll have to deal with the unfortunate title of the nation's bastard child for the rest of his life. And if he ever _does_ manage to crawl out of that demeaning shadow, he'll spend the duration of that time constantly worrying about someone dragging him back; the past he never asked for forever his personal boogeyman.

There's Finn, his right-hand man, and the Justices he's appointed; a lot of people's lives will be effected by the revelation should he choose to go that route.

And then, waiting in the wings, will be people like Sue Sylvester to take advantage, seize control of Congress, and send this great nation back fifty years, eradicating all the progress he and the democratic presidents before him have made.

No, Sam can't let that happen.

There has to be a way…

Sam's startled out of his thoughts by a knock on the office door.

"Come in."

"Mr. President," one of the non-regular secret servicemen addresses him, stepping into the room. "I'm here to inform you that while the First Lady is not here at present, she is well-kept and secure."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks in confusion. After their last talk, he'd been pretty sure that Brittany would not be staying in their shared residence, but he'd never expected her to leave the premises entirely. "Brittany's not at Blair House?"

"No Sir."

"Well where is she?" Sam asks, alarmed.

The agent suddenly looks nervous. "Um…"

"Have you suddenly gone deaf, Karofsky? Where is Brittany?"

"She's asked us not to say."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Tell me or you're on Lord Tubbington patrol for a month."

"She's at Santana Lopez and associates."

* * *

It's quiet in Santana's office.

Too quiet.

They're all sitting around the conference table, everyone either staring blankly at the wall or staring at another person.

It's a bit…bothersome, Santana thinks.

Puck sits with his arms crossed, the secret serviceman Jake sitting just across from him, though Puck is going through great lengths to avoid looking at the other man for long stretches of time.

Eventually though, Jake's constant vigilance grates on his nerves.

"What?" Puck finally asks, his usually flat, monotone voice portraying a hint of annoyance.

Jake squints as she surveys the other man. "You look familiar."

"I get that a lot," Puck says after a long moment.

"Really?" Sugar asks acerbically. "You get that a lot?"

Brittany shifts in her seat, more than uncomfortable with the situation and it doesn't help that Santana's sitting just across from her. Her discomfort grows even more with the way one of Santana's colleagues is staring at her.

"May I help you?" Brittany asks politely.

"Oh no," Rachel says, still gaping.

"Oh," Brittany says, continuing to squirm. "Well the only reason I ask is because-"

"Because you're staring," Kitty supplies as she interrupts, slapping her palm against the table. "Cut it out, creeper."

"Kitty," Brittany lightly scolds.

"Sorry," Kitty murmurs to Brittany, but not without sending one last pointed look Rachel's way.

"I…" Rachel starts, "I honestly don't mean to stare but I… First Lady you've always been gorgeous on the television and magazines but I had no idea you were so breathtaking in person."

"Oh, well, um, thank you," Brittany coughs, trying to stave off an involuntary blush.

"Way to make it even more awkward, Rach," Artie murmurs, bumping the brunette woman's elbow with his own. "What Rachel means to say is you're super dope in the freshest way," he says to Brittany, reaching out for a fist bump. "C'mon, yo. Don't leave me hangin'. All the white people learned how to do this when the Obamas were in the White House."

Brittany, in spite of her internal drama, cracks a tiny smile, even going so far as to laugh a little as she returns the greeting in kind.

"There we go," Artie laughs, settling back into his seat. "Now you're an official Snix-pick."

"What's a Snix-pick?" Jake asks hesitantly just as Santana sits up in her chair, her eyes looking pleadingly at Brittany.

"Never you mind," she offhandedly tells Jake. "Brittany, can we talk? In private?"

"I…" Brittany says, lowering her eyes, "I don't think that would be a good idea, Ms. Lopez."

"My name is Santana," Santana sighs out wearily, "And you know my name is Santana. Just, please, let me explain."

"There's nothing further to discuss and I am crystal clear on-"

"Puck," Santana interrupts, turning her attention to the surly gentleman under her employment. "Can you please escort the First Lady to my main office?"

Puck nods and, before anyone can even blink, Jake's flat on his back on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling and by the time he rights himself and draws his weapon Brittany is already in Puck's arms.

"Stand down," Puck says in warning, squeezing Brittany tighter but not too roughly.

"Have you lost your crazy military man mind?" Sugar yells, waving her arms around erratically. Like everyone else, she'd leapt up at the beginning of the commotion.

"Santana!" Puck yells after neither secret service agent yield.

"Brittany!" Santana calls out, making sure the other woman can't help but to look in her direction.

Brittany dithers for a moment longer before sighing heavily in frustration. "Fine," she says. "Jake, Kitty, lower your weapons."

The agents slowly stand down and Puck turns the First Lady loose, lowering his head when the blonde glowers at him.

Santana leads the way back to her office, barely containing a haughty smile.

"You've got ten minutes, Missy," Brittany warns, pointing a threatening finger in Santana's face. "I wouldn't look so smug."

"Ten," Santana smirks, holding the door open for Brittany, "I only need five."


	7. A National Disaster: Done In The Dark

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Part two as promised. Thanks for the feedback guys. And thanks for reading! All grammatical/spelling errors are mine alone. Apologies. Also, I'm sorry for not replying to reviews this week. It's been a really hectic week at work. I might get to it this week but I'm almost positive that I won't. Or, I won't have time to do that and pen the next chapter in time for next week's update, so it's you guys' call.

* * *

**A National Disaster – What's Done In The Dark**

Jacob waits in the entryway barely able to avoid the heavy downpour.

His checks his watch again and notes the time: 9:57

He hopes he's not too late.

Just as he thinks that maybe he'd read the address wrong, a non-descript black car crawls down the deserted street, slowly pulling up until it stalls on the curbside adjacent to him.

The back window lowers just enough for a package to be tossed out, the cardboard box slapping loudly against the soaked pavement.

Jacob tries to peek into the car idling about eight feet or so away from him but he can't make out anything through the torrent of rain. He takes a step out from his temporary shelter but almost instantly the car pulls away, speeding into the darkness at a dangerous speed.

He jogs out and quickly retrieves the package, sliding back under the awning before opening it and looking over its contents. There's a phone, a tri-fold piece of paper, and cash – a large stack of cash.

The phone in his hand rings.

"Hello?" Jacob answers tentatively.

"_Jacob_?" the voice on the other end of the line sounds almost amused. "_You sound…scared_."

"I'm not exactly used to all the sneaky spy stuff. The most exciting thing I've ever done before all this is crunch numbers for the Beiste political funding group."

"_You don't want to back out, do you_?"

"No, of course not," Jacob answers.

"_Good_," the woman drawls. "_I've invested quite a lot of time and money already. I'd hate for our arrangement to end…unfavorably_."

In spite of the rain, Jacob's sure his swallow is audible across the line.

"_Now that we understand one another, let's get down to business shall we? Your personal cell phone? Trash it. From now on you only receive calls on this phone. Only receive. If for some reason you need to contact me before I contact you, dial number one. If your bosses ask about your old one, you lost it and are awaiting a replacement. For any other personal conversations, you make those on a landline. Only. As far as your reconnaissance goes, keep me posted. Keep an eye on the power players and let me know what potential moves they might be making_."

"Okay," Jacob says, soaking in all the instruction. "But what about Sylvester? She's getting closer and closer to the truth."

"_Sylvester is a small fish, Jacob. I've got her under control_," the woman chuckles. "_Have a little faith, Israel_."

* * *

Brittany sits in Santana's office, her body perched on the end of her leather desk chair.

Santana stands across from her, silent, but Brittany can feel the other woman's eyes on her.

"Tick, tick, Santana," she finally says, breaking the silent game they'd been playing as she bravely looks Santana in the eye. "Your time has almost run out."

Santana's mouth twists as she bites the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, her normally confident demeanor wavering with the weight of her current situation. It takes a moment but finally she murmurs, "I don't know where to start."

"How about you start at the beginning? When this whole information blackout started," Brittany suggests, wanting more than anything to have some brutal clarity on the whole thing.

However, just when things are about to become crystal clear…

Brittany squints when Santana's matching floor lamps flicker, eyeing them curiously until they both go out entirely.

Brittany's jaw drops. "You have got to be fudging kidding me."

And in spite of all Santana's struggling with internally, she can't help but giggle at the cuteness.

* * *

Sam's going over in his head the reasons why his wife, First Lady of these United States, would be visiting a known political fixer in the middle of a dangerous storm and he doesn't come up with a very long list.

There are only two possibilities.

Brittany knows.

Or Brittany thinks she knows.

Sam catches his likeness on his blacked out laptop screen, the lightening outside flashing just enough to give him a glimpse of his contemplative profile and the man reflected back at him looks weary, distraught but most of all, cowardly.

At the end, even when he had revealed all of his transgressions to Brittany, when he'd disclosed his and Mercedes past yet lengthy affair, he hadn't been able to bring himself to reveal the most cutting betrayal – their child. Yes, he will try to spare himself the guilt by saying that he was sparing Brittany the pain, unwilling to hurt her anymore than he'd already done.

But, in the end, he just didn't want to be the bearer of such devastating news, even though he knows eventually the truth will be revealed by someone, whether it be Mercedes, this still unknown whistle-blower, or, now, Santana.

So, yes, he's a coward.

Her rubs at his face as he sits at the Resolute desk, noting with some dissatisfaction that he'll have to shave in the morning. And that's another thing. What will tomorrow bring?

Personally, his marriage may be on the verge of ending and Mercedes won't even look at him.

Professionally, the gun control bill is still in limbo, thanks to an unwavering minority in the Senate, and there are rumblings in house about the Republicans trying to rebuke it all together should it not succeed this pass. Not to mention the seemingly endless list of people who want his spot, both known and unknown.

(The first rule in Washington is the harder they smile at you the more they dislike you.)

"What are you still doing up?"

Sam doesn't even react harshly to the abrupt interruption, instead, he merely sighs before leaning way back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head.

"Too caught up in my head again, I guess," he says, watching her as she steps further into the office.

Mercedes struts over, the heels of her shoes quieted by the carpeted floor. She can feel him staring at her but doesn't give him the satisfaction of returning his gaze. Instead, she keeps her eyes focused on the floor.

"I'll says," she murmurs, standing behind his chair. "You didn't even hear me come in."

Tentatively, Mercedes starts kneading his shoulders. "What's wrong, baby?"

"Baby?" Sam questions, even though his shoulders melt at the relaxing touch. "This coming from the woman who's basically just written 'us' off?"

"Just because I respect myself, Brittany, and this country too much to continue sleeping with you," Mercedes sasses, her massage turning just a little rough before easing off again, "…it doesn't mean that I don't still care about you. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Why…are you still…awake?"

"Why are you?" Sam playfully deflects.

"Such a-" Mercedes says, clicking her teeth. "Okay, I'm the White House secretary. I'm pretty sure that I get less sleep than the sniper guards and that's saying a lot. Now, are you going to tell me what's on your mind, boy, or am I going to have to Jedi Knight it out of-"

"Brittany's with Santana Lopez," Sam blurts out, cringing when the hands on his shoulders instantly still.

"Yeah, they're friends," Mercedes says slowly, resuming her ministrations. "I knew that. Just because you don't trivialize yourself with everyone's comings and goings, it's in _my_ job description. They've been hanging out for a while now."

"No, I mean, she's with her. Now. As in not here. As in, something so compelled her to get to Santana that she went out on the middle of a Superstorm."

Mercedes stops entirely now, spinning Sam's chair until he's facing her. "So what? You think they're sleeping together?" she asks and Sam outright laughs at that.

"_That's _where your mind goes?" he jokingly asks.

Mercedes shrugs, not meeting his gaze. "Love is the only thing that would get me out in the rain."

Sam looks up at her, swallowing tightly as his hands find her wrists, his thumbs massaging the inside of them. "'This is not our time, she tells him, tearfully'," he recites, "'but that will never mean I love you less.'" He pulls her body to him, wrapping his arms around her waist as his cheek rests against her stomach.

"'Cedes, how I wish things were different," he whispers mournfully. "I'd give you the world; you and Bobby."

"Hush now," Mercedes quiets him, letting one hand rest against his face as the other slides into his hair. "Wishes are for dreamers. We're doers."

"We are, aren't we?" Sam asks, tightening his hold on her. "We're not hesitant, pensive people. We're about taking action."

Sam rises, slowly letting his hands trail up Mercedes's sides and the woman involuntarily shivers. "I think it's time for me to take it," he whispers, not giving Mercedes a second to protest before leaning in.

* * *

Santana finishes lighting the last of the tea light candles she so conveniently had stashed in her office desk drawer, smiling to herself that Brittany has calmed down enough to return to her naturally relaxed state.

She sits on the floor, her back pressed against one of Santana's bookshelves and her long legs stretched out while her bare toes dig into the plush, nearly room-sized area rug.

"Before I start," she finally says suddenly, nervously glancing at the blonde woman now looking up at her from the floor, "You have to promise me you'll let me finish and you'll at least hear me out."

"Okay first," Brittany scoffs, "I don't have to promise anything. _And _you're not in the best position to make demands-"

"_Brittany_," Santana nearly whines, cutting her off. "Please?"

Brittany rolls her eyes at the pout the woman's wearing. "I'm such a pushover."

"Okay," Santana swallows, kicking off her own shoes and kneeling before her friend. "Let's start with why I didn't tell you the moment I knew you didn't know the whole truth."

Brittany crosses her arms against her chest, raising a pointed eyebrow to express her interest in her answer.

"It's stupid, okay? But we were…are," Santana corrects, "good friends. And, I don't know, I didn't want to have to be the one to hurt you. I mean…you _deserved _to hear the truth from the person who'd misused your trust, Brittany. The moment I found out you didn't know everything I marched straight over to Sam and demanded he tell you the truth."

When Brittany doesn't look any less pissed, Santana's look of imploration drops along with her shoulders. "In hindsight, I probably would tell you, but where would that leave me? Right back here. With you hating me."

Brittany sighs. "I don't hate you," she says, looking away when Santana's eyes glance up to find hers again. "I…I could never hate you Santana. And now that I've had time to ingest everything, I can totally see your point. In the beginning you had a professional and legal obligation and then after…it got complicated."

"Still, I'm so sorry Britt," Santana says. "If I could take it all back – all of it, back before Sam even made governor I would."

"But then we would have never met," Brittany says, frowning at the words even as she speaks them.

"I do believe our paths would have crossed eventually, but, if our acquaintances never meeting is the only way to spare you hurt…" Santana trials off, shrugging.

"That's…" Brittany searches for a word, shaking her head, "…admirable."

Santana quirks a small smile, still looking uneasy with anxiety.

"Do you know that he still wouldn't tell me the whole thing?" Brittany says, continuing when Santana looks at her in confusion. "He admitted to the affair, to…" Brittany pauses to swallow down emotion, "…to having an affair with Mercedes. But when I pressed him about Bobby he told me that he'd only volunteered to being a donor – because Mercedes is such a 'good friend'."

Santana feels herself getting angry, her fingernails cutting into her palms as her fists ball up tightly.

Brittany shakes her head. "What kind of man did I marry? He can't even take onus for his own flesh and blood," she laughs humorlessly, the sound almost completely lost in a sob as her head leans back against the bookshelf and she stares at the darkened ceiling. "I just…I…I guess I'm just mad."

Santana nods in understanding. "At Sam."

"Yeah," Brittany nods, speaking more aloud than to Santana. "Yeah, I'm mad at him. But mostly I'm mad at myself for not figuring out something wasn't right sooner." Brittany breathes out a little, shaking her head this time in frustration.

"God," she whispers out, her throat closing up with sadness, "I'm so stupid."

"Hey," Santana says a bit harshly. She scoots closer to Brittany, close enough to wrap an around the woman and sit next to her. "You're not stupid. Believing the best in people is not stupid. Don't you ever say that again, okay?"

She squeezes Brittany's shoulder until Brittany nods in the affirmative.

"Besides," Santana adds, "I'm a pretty good judge of intellectual persons and you, Miss Brittany, are no slouch in that category."

Brittany snorts, in spite of the few tears that have escaped despite her best efforts. "You're so corny," she says, lifting her head up to look at Santana.

Santana smiles, bringing up her left hand to gently wipe those foolish tears away. "But you like me corny," she whispers, her thumb brushing the plush of Brittany's cheek.

Brittany's breathing skitters to a halt and before either of them knows what's happening, Brittany's eyes are fluttering closed a half-second before Santana's and they're kissing.

* * *

Finn ends up stranded in the White House as well – though it's not of any fault of his own.

He just wanted to see to it that Becky made it home safely like the true gentleman that he is and between her late working hours and begging for some kind of transport – and the secretly sought after kiss on the cheek – he ended up being forced to stay barricaded overnight.

It's actually pretty neat that he's here now, like this.

The normally vibrant and constantly trafficked hallways and corridors are virtually empty with only a few stray secret servicemen on watch, leaving the White House to resemble a museum after closing more than a mansion.

He uses the rare moment of solace to do a little exploring, far from the prying eyes of aides and the many visitors to the nation's capital, wandering past countless doors of conference and sitting rooms.

He's not expecting to find anything exactly, but when he comes upon a gaggle of secret service men giggling like drunken frat boys, his interest can't help but to become piqued.

"Hey guys," Finn says, addressing the group of men and they all instantly sop laughing, standing at attention rapidly.

"Good evening, Mr. Vice President," they all say at once, back into securing mode obviously.

"Aww man," Finn whines. "I didn't mean to break up the party. Seriously guys, relax. Go back to what you were doing."

When none of the men move, even after his entreating, Finn gets a little suspicious because even though he doesn't pick up on subtle things like ever, he knows that a joke can't just stop being funny.

"C'mon," he prods good-naturedly. "Well, at least let me in on the joke."

It's at this moment that a crackled though distinguishable enough noise catches his attention, a combination of rhythmic bumps, sighs, and hushed whispers and when the dots finally connect in his mind Finn's eyes widen like saucers.

"Oh my God, are you guys watching porn?" he hisses scandalously, waiting for an answer that's not immediately forthcoming. "Someone speak up. _Now_," he commands.

"It's not porn, Sir," the guard closest to him says and Finn's not buying that.

"Hey now," Finn says, hiking up his pants. "I'm the Vice-President of the United States and I will not be lied to. I know porn when I hear it and that's porn. So, unless you want to me to open an investigation into why the American taxpayers are footing the bill for your spank bank one of you's needs to start talking."

"It's a recording Sir," the same guard shamefully admits after looking around at his comrades. "From the Oval office."

"You guys record the Oval office?" Finn asks, surprised. "Have you guys ever heard me on one of the-" he starts to ask before the severity of the statement hammers itself home and clears his mind. "Are you listening to the President right now?"

"Yes Sir."

"So Sam's watching porn?" Finn asks, scrunching his face up at the thought and completely missing one the guards in the corner face-palming.

"…_.mphh Sam…_" scratches out into the room.

"That's…" Finn gasps, "…Sam's having sex in the Oval office. Oh man. I'm never going to be able to concentrate in there again," he laments. "But…on the other hand, way to go Sam," Finn says, mostly to himself with a small grin.

But then he's back to the guards with his – self-termed – super serious face back on. "Shame on you guys. Listening in on the President and his wife. I should have you all written up and reassigned. But I'll let you off with a warning for now."

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President," the guard says, speaking for all of them once again and Finn nods, leaving them to it, but not before he makes sure to turn off the transmitter.

* * *

"There's no ice anywhere," Sugar informs them, plopping down onto one of the sofa seat….and then she thinks better of that and plops down into Artie's lap instead, much to the man's bewilderment. "Sorry G.I. Jake," she adds empathetically looking at the serviceman.

Jake, though still clutching his wrist in pain, manages a small smile, "Thanks anyway."

"This is all your fault," Kitty says, sneering at Puck. "If you would have just asked like a normal person-"

"You would have said no," Puck interrupts, brooking no argument. "Look, I'm just like you two. My boss tells me to do something. I do it. No questions asked."

Jake simpers again when her tries to rotate his wrist and Puck finally takes mercy, rolling his eyes with a sigh. "Give me your hand," he instructs, standing over the other man and Jake – perhaps rightfully so – looks at him like he's grown two heads.

"What?"

"Your hand."

"You're crazy," Kitty says. "You'll probably break his arm next."

"Do you want it to stop hurting or not?" Puck asks pointedly, ignoring the woman glaring at him.

With much reluctance, Jake sticks out his hand in response, expecting the worse.

What he expects, of course, doesn't happen.

What _does_ happen is so much worse.

Puck twists Jake's wrist with so much voracity that they all can hear almost every bone crack and Jake nearly turns green from the pain but, just as quickly as it had begun, it's over and Puck's turning him loose, Jake's wrist now fully functioning and pain-free.

"Thanks man," Jake says in awe, still testing out his wrist.

Puck just nods, returning to his seat and position, staring at Santana's office door.

Sugar turns toward Artie. "Maybe he's like Morpheus or something."

Jacob can't believe his luck.

* * *

There he was, ready to call it a night after Mercedes dismissed him for the evening and try to find a way to make it home when a shiny spot on the hallway floor happened to catch his attention.

The shiny spot – which he'd thought was a dime – ended up being some freshly discarded chewing gum but that's not the lucky part.

The lucky part was that in bending down to retrieve the…ugh, gum, he'd been relatively hidden, and being relatively hidden is great when you're eavesdropping on the VP giving it to a bunch of security guards.

At first he writes it off as an anecdote, fodder to share with the rest of the aides – a bunch of married secret service men having a wank party and listening to porn; but then he pieces the snatches of information together.

"…recording…Oval office…Sam…"

Naturally, though intriguing to think about, a husband having sex with his wife isn't all that raunchy, even if it is in the famed Oval office.

But Jacob knows better, because Jacob had just been informed by Mercedes herself that she was off to meet with the President in the Oval office.

When Vice President Hudson finally makes his leave, Jake scampers away as quickly as he can, thankfully remaining undetected. And he waits until he's in the solace of a handi-capable restroom before pulling out his sole source of communication these days.

"_It's late_," the familiar voice answers.

"It's still happening," Jacob all but squeals.

The shocked laugh on the other end of the line startles him.

"_Well fuck me. Christmas came early this year_," the voice says, sounding amused. "_How do you know_?"

Jacob recounts, in detail everything he'd overheard and quickly and as thoroughly as possible and waits, like always, for further instruction.

"_I need that tape_."

* * *

Rachel, forever nosy, is perched right outside Santana's office but she can't hear anything. And it's a good thing too because chances are she'd explode if she knew what was going on on the other side of that door.

There's a thought tugging on the back of Santana's mind.

Something about the President of the United States and marriage, but whenever she tries to focus in on that something her brain quickly chimes in with a _keep kissing her_ so she does.

Still…

"Brittany," Santana whispers, still not breaking contact entirely. "What are we doing?"

"Mmm," Brittany moans, running her tongue along Santana's upper lip before tugging on the bottom one with her teeth, "We're kissing."

"I…" Santana pauses when Brittany's tongue burns a trail along her neck, the blonde's fingers fisting Santana's shirt collar as her own twitch helplessly against Brittany's sides. "I know we're kissing. But why are we?" she asks, breathless.

Brittany finds her lips again, brushing against them softly with her own. "Because…"

"Because why?" Santana asks, bringing one hand up to cup the back of Brittany's head, deepening one of those feather-light kisses.

"I don't know," Brittany sighs, still kissing, screwing her eyes shut tighter. "Don't make me think."

"Okay," Santana agrees easily, nodding slightly as she continues their kiss and not even remembering why she started the conversation in the first place and not caring as Brittany kisses her again and again and again and again…


	8. A New Dawn

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **I think I'm going to need a few weeks in between this post and the next so warning in advance. My work schedule has picked up drastically and I haven't had time to prepare anything. Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing you guys. I love getting feedback from you all. Excuse the mistakes in this because I'm flying solo for this project. Thanks again. Have a good week!

* * *

**A New Dawn**

"We've been awaiting President Evans' remarks regarding the storm and the emergency efforts the city has taken and it...are we ready to go now?" Shane asks, listening more intently to his earpiece when the voices sound more strident. "Okay, folks. We're going to send you out to our own Marley Rose who is on location on the White House south lawn. Marley."

"Thank you Shane," Marley says, looking directly into the camera. "I'm here at the White House awaiting President Evans. He's scheduled to give his remarks regarding Superstorm Abdul but there seems to be some kind of hold up..."

"I'm not doing this thing without Santana there," Brittany says. She's standing with Santana by her side. Across from her, Sam is sitting in a chair, his legs crossed and head slightly bowed. Mercedes, clutching her ever-present clipboard, is standing a short distance away from them both, nearest to the door and Kurt is standing slightly adjacent to her.

They look like they're having a stand off.

"Britt," Santana tries, stepping forward, "maybe I should-"

"Shh," Brittany interrupts. "I'm handling it."

A surprised but kind of proud Santana gladly stands down.

"Brittany, I know you're hurting right now but please try to listen to reason," Mercedes begs.

Brittany just looks at her, bored. "I don't know why you're talking to me."

Mercedes, expectedly, looks hurt by the comment but Kurt moves her aside, trying to get Brittany to focus on him instead.

"Mrs. Evans-"

"Call me Ms. Pierce," Brittany says pointedly, eyes flashing.

"Brittany," Kurt says instead, softening his voice, "I...I can't even begin to imagine how you feel right now. I've never...I just, I'm really sorry Brittany. But you must know how damaging it'll look for the President to have a known crisis manager not only present at his press conference, but standing alongside him? I mean," Kurt gives a little, uneasy laugh, "the press'll have a field day."

"Let them," Brittany shrugs.

Kurt sighs. "Brittany-"

"No, you know what? You guys are good at putting a spin on things," Brittany starts. "You excel at keeping people in the dark. I know Sam's a pro at it," she adds darkly, nodding in Sam's direction.

Sam only closes his eyes slowly in response.

"I don't care how you go about 'fixing' it, but the only way I'm doing this press conference," Brittany continues, reaching back for Santana's hand and squeezing it tightly, defiantly, in her own, "is if Santana's standing by side."

It's a small miracle that Santana manages to hide her smirk.

* * *

_Losing control is not something Santana's very used to._

_She's always in control – even Mother Nature follows her command because Santana's Aunt Flow only comes when Santana's good and ready for her._

_So, just sitting back and letting things happen is not really her forte'._

_But, right now, Brittany's not giving her much of a choice._

"_How are you so soft?" Brittany asks quietly, her lips running up and down the length of Santana's neck._

_She's straddling Santana's lap, her knees bracketing Santana's thighs. Santana only shrugs, letting her hands slip lower on Brittany's waist, her palms resting just over the seat of Brittany's pants._

"_So soft," Brittany repeats in a whisper, her hands moving from their respective resting places tangled in Santana's hair and resting against her cheeks. They glide lower still, skimming along Santana's neck as Brittany pulls back, her eyes finding Santana's questioning ones._

_Brittany's hands fall to the hem of her sweatshirt, lifting it up and away to reveal a barely concealing tank top. She brushes her hair back, smiling shyly when Santana openly gapes._

_Santana swallows, tugging Brittany closer by the ass, her fingers flexing and imprinting themselves on Brittany's skin through the fabric._

_Brittany smiles a little more then, settling more comfortably on Santana's lap. She toys with the top button on Santana's shirt before Santana makes the decision for her, quickly undoing the blouse but before she can pass the last but through its mooring, Brittany's lips are on hers again, her hands framing Santana's face._

_And it's this that finally lifts the haze; the feel of Brittany's warm palm and cool wedding band against her overheated skin breaks the spell…_

* * *

"Remember," Mercedes says to Sam a few moments before he's due to go on. The President, more than ever, doesn't appear to be paying her much attention but he nods, hearing her even though he's obviously distracted.

Mercedes rolls her eyes and carries on, tucking a few notecards into his suit pocket. "Be concerned but concise. We don't have time for one of your lengthy soliloquys."

"Come out there with me," Sam asks suddenly.

"You know I can't do that," Mercedes tells him as she frowns slightly, delaying time by smoothing out his already flawless jacket lapel.

"Why not?" Sam asks with a crooked smile. "We'll just look like a super-stacked united front. Plus," Sam glances around before lowering his voice, "I want you beside me 'Cedes."

"Are we all set Mr. President?" an aide asks, abruptly.

"Yes," Sam states, distancing himself from Mercedes once again.

"Great," the aide says, gesturing for Sam to follow her. "The First Lady and Ms. Lopez are already in position."

* * *

"_Do you guys sleep here often?" Jake asks curiously, leaning back against the wall._

_He's taken to sitting on the floor, his suit jacket off and now bunched up and pillowed behind his head. _

_Sugar shrugs from her position lying on the couch; She's sharing with Artie who's laying the opposite way so that they're head to foot. "Sometimes," she offers. "We work a lot of long hours."_

"_And what is it exactly that you do?" Kitty asks, having returned from checking on Brittany._

"_We fix stuff," Sugar manages through a yawn._

"_You expect us to believe you're all just a bunch of overpriced repairmen," Kitty asks amusedly, sliding down to sit next to Jake._

"_Well, actually," Artie starts, his words partially distorted by the hands his face is resting on, "We're kind of fixers of political careers. Problem solvers."_

"_What about him?" Jake asks, eyeing Puck who's sharing a sofa chair with Rachel. He watches the way Puck shifts to allow Rachel to rest more comfortably against his shoulder. _

"_What about me?" Puck grouses._

"_What's your story?" Kitty brazenly asks._

_Puck stares at the pair long and hard – not acknowledging the way Sugar and Artie have also grown more interested – before looking away, dismissive._

"_I don't have a story," Puck tells him, a barely noticeable tinge of sadness working its way into his tone. "No beginning, no middle…I just have a right now."_

"_That's-" Kitty starts._

"_And that's going to have to be good enough for you," Puck states definitively, effectively ending the conversation._

_It's quiet again for a few tense moments, then-_

"_Um," someone calls out tentatively, his voice echoing around the otherwise silent office, "I know you guys told me to stay quiet but I really, really need to go to the bathroom."_

_Sugar and Artie share an anxious glance and Puck only drops his head, hiding a rare smile._

_Kitty looks beside herself with bewilderment, a look that's mirrored by Jake as they ask loudly and in unison, "Who the hell is that?!"_

* * *

Kurt is doing some last minute primping to Brittany's hair when Santana walks up.

"You missed your calling, Hummel," she quips with a smirk and Kurt twists his lips to conceal his smile.

"I don't have time to trade barbs with you Santana," he says, his eyes flitting over in her direction for a moment. "Ugh," he scoffs, "You flawless bitch."

"I do try," Santana smiles, moving closer to Brittany. "You ready to do this?"

Brittany bites the inside of her cheek. "Are you still going to be there with me?"

"Yes," Santana nods, her eyes glittering as she smiles.

She finds it oddly strange, that even with all of the uncertainty surrounding them, she still finds comfort in being in Brittany's presence.

"Then yes," Brittany says, smiling back. "I'm ready to do this."

"Places everyone," the bossy aide announces, arriving with Sam and Mercedes in tow. They align themselves in their positions: Sam in front with Brittany to his right, Santana on Brittany's other side while Mercedes flanks his left.

"Hey," Santana says a moment before the door opens, her left hand brushing against Brittany's right one.

"Huh?" Brittany asks, sounding and looking nervous.

"I meant to tell you earlier," Santana whispers, moving in just a little closer to be heard, "But you look really beautiful."

Brittany blushes, her fingers brushing along Santana's and, for a moment, Santana thinks they're going to hold hands, but Brittany's fingers keep moving until at long last her pinky catches Santana's and hangs on, squeezing gently.

Santana smiles and squeezes back.

* * *

"_Brittany…Brittany, we have to stop."_

_The words leave Santana's lips in a rushed whisper, as if she's worried she'll never get them out if she doesn't say them quickly._

"_No," Brittany murmurs, "We really don't."_

"_Britt," Santana tries to say but Brittany just tries to kiss her harder, her hands moving about frantically under Santana's open blouse, working it over her shoulders. _

_It's really distracting._

_Brittany's a really clever girl._

"_Britt," she tries again, chasing Brittany's hands and taking a hold of them. "Brittany, we can't do this," Santana breathes, pulling away enough that Brittany is forced to stop kissing her._

_Brittany rests her forehead against Santana's, shutting her eyes tightly as she catches her breath._

"_We can," Brittany whispers. "I want to," she adds in earnest._

_Santana swallows, trying to calm herself down, forcing her reason to return to her. "I want to too," Santana says softly, bringing first one of Brittany's hands and then the other to her mouth and kissing her knuckles tenderly. Brittany slowly opens her eyes. "You have no idea how badly I want to."_

"_Then-" Brittany starts but Santana hushes her._

"_I won't help you do to him what he's done to you,' Britt," Santana explains. "It's not fair."_

"_To Sam?" Brittany asks, incredulous. "I don't care abo-"_

"_It's not fair to us," Santana interrupts as gently as she can, her dark eyes conveying as much seriousness as she can muster._

_Brittany gasps, biting her lip to ground herself before she nods once, resolutely. _

"_Okay," she says, slowly. "You're right. But you are going to have to do me one favor."_

_Santana frowns, tilting her head. "What's that?"_

"Please _put your shirt back on," Brittany breathes out, looking so cutely frustrated Santana can't help laughing heartily._

* * *

Sam waits for the camera flashes to taper off before speaking, panning his view from one side of the crowded lawn to the other.

"Good Morning," Sam address, staring into the main camera. "Obviously, this is a very difficult morning, and, there will probably be more ahead. That's almost a certainty. But it is, indeed, a good morning because, up until this hour, thanks to the efforts of our evacuation and precautionary personnel we are able to report that there have been no storm-related deaths in the D.C. metro area and that, my friends and fellow Americans, is something to feel good about."

Sam pauses to allow for the brief applause.

"And now that another day has dawned," Sam continues, "Now that the storm has passed and the waters are starting to recede, me must call on one another to…call on one another to…I'm sorry."

Mercedes glances at Sam when he trails off momentarily, seemingly forgetting his place. Sam shuffles through the note cards, the words turning into a gray, blurry mass.

He tucks them away in his suit pocket.

"I'm sorry. Going to go a little off script for a second," he jokes, pleased when the crowd laughs lightly. "The storm's over and we've all survived it. But now we've got to rebuild and the best way to do that," he says, glancing ever so briefly at Brittany, "…is to trust. We've got to trust in ourselves, trust in our families and friends. We've got to look to our neighbors in need and lend a helping hand and prove, definitively, that the sun always shines brighter after the storm."

The crowd erupts in applause at the speech's culmination and Sam steps back, letting out a long breath. Brittany steps up beside him and he wraps an arm around her with a wide smile. Santana and Mercedes follow suit, the press and the public completely unknowing of their inner drama as they all smile convincingly straight ahead.

However, Jake and Kitty have a perfect insider's view as they watch Santana's hand climb into Brittany's and Mercedes lean her hip into Sam's side, hidden behind the podium.

* * *

"_We have to talk about what we're going to tell them," Brittany says, interrupting their previously silent drive back to the White House._

_Santana smoothes out the suit she'd grabbed out of her office's emergency wardrobe. "We wouldn't have had to tell them anything if I'd have gone to my place," Santana points out._

"_I told you," Brittany says, "I need you to come with me. I can't trust anyone there." _

_Santana's stomach flips over at what Brittany's statement is implying._

"_Besides, it's too late to go back now so you're going," Brittany says haughtily._

_Santana smiles crookedly. "I guess you're right."_

"_I know we're supposed you be invisible and speak only when spoken to and everything," Kitty starts, speaking up from where she's sitting across from Brittany and Santana, "But do you really expect Jake and I to believe nothing happened in that office room?"_

"_Yes," Santana answers._

"_And the weird guy, that needed _permission _to pee? Do we get to know who he is?"  
_

"_No," Santana answers again shortly._

_Kitty falls back against the limo seat. "Oh well," she says, dry and sarcastic. "I tried."_

"_I'm sorry," Jake says, equally as frustrated with the lack of information, "I honestly don't mean to pry Ma'am, but what exactly are we supposed to report to the President."_

"_You have nothing to report. You spent the evening in my office because of the storm and were fine," Santana tells them._

"_And," Brittany adds, "If Sam has any more questions he should ask me directly. In fact, I insist he does."_

_Santana looks at Brittany in confusion. "What are you thinking about doing?"_

"_Don't worry, San," Brittany smiles. "I got this."_

* * *

"This has got to be one of the most uncomfortable situations I've ever been in," Kitty murmurs, watching the adults in the room take turns glaring at one another.

They're all seated in different place in the room. Sam sits at the head of the conference table, his suit jacket draped along the back of his chair as his eyes fix to a spot off in space. Kurt is two places down from him, clicking and unclicking his pen with anxiety. Brittany's seated near the other end, staring down at the immaculately polished table surface, the overhead lights leaving pretty light patterns on the wood. Santana is sitting only a place down from her, separated but still close enough to hold Brittany's hand atop the table.

"But didn't you unit get pinned down in Tikrit one time?" Jake asks.

"Yeah," Kitty agrees. "I was on the rag and cramping then so that was probably more uncomfortable," she says as Mercedes finally enters the room, looking even more peeved than earlier as she takes a seat across from Kurt. "This is a close second, though."

"Give us the room," Sam directs, his hands folded and pressed against his lips in contemplation.

The secret service agents hasten to oblige him.

"What's the chatter Mercedes?" Sam asks, after they've closed the door.

"Your early numbers are fine but once the rumors regarding Santana's presence gain momentum we'll probably take a hit," the woman says, a bit icily.

"It's already being propagated that she's an old friend of the family who helped come up with the fundraiser and you all have the history to substantiate that," Kurt says. "It should resolve itself in a day or so."

"That's very good, Kurt," Santana remarks, impressed.

Kurt actually looks surprised. "Thanks Santana."

"Okay," Sam interrupts, his eyes having been focused on Brittany – or rather, Brittany and Santana – for a while now. "Where were you last night Brittany?"

"I was with Santana," Brittany answers him, coldly. "But, then again, you already know that."

"I knew you were at her office, yes," Sam admits. "Where'd you sleep?"

"What are you…Sam, I told you I was with Santana."

"So you've said," Sam says, narrowing his eyes as her peers at their clasped hands. "But, I'm asking-"

"Where'd you sleep, Sam?" Brittany asks, her eyes flashing as she turns to face him dead on. "Because it certainly wasn't in our bed. Emma told me."

"I slept in my office," Sam says, defensively, "But we're not talking about me right now. Why are you getting so defensive-"

"Sam, I can sleep wherever I want, whenever I want and with whomever I want," Brittany cuts him off, "And there is _nothing_ you can say to me about it because this?" she says, gesturing vaguely between herself and Sam, "…this bond, this trust…flew out the window the moment you started taking your work to bed."

"Whoa," Kurt comments, eyebrows in his hair.

"Britt," Santana whispers, squeezing Brittany's hand to calm her down. "Sam, I thought we were here to discuss our options regarding the whistleblower."

"Uh, Santana," Kurt starts at the same time Mercedes asks, "Does Brittany know-"

"Brittany knows _everything_," Brittany says, her eyes betraying just an ounce of hurt as she looks at Mercedes whose defeated look in response speaks volumes.

There are no more secrets in this room.

"Well…" Sam starts slowly, wringing his hands together once before lying them palm down and flat against the table, "…this whole conversation is moot then, isn't it? I don't have any options. Everything, any decisions we need to make now or in the future, they're all predicated on what _Brittany_ does. It's up to her."

All eyes turn toward her and Brittany smirks in response.

"Sucks don't it."

* * *

"This is actually really nice for something they just put together a few hours ago," Santana comments idly, sidling up to Sam in a rare moment when he's alone.

Sam surveys the arena; the food and clothes drive in full effect as different citizens steadily drop off clothing and supplies.

"Well, I've got a good team," Sam says, smile permanently on his face for the cameras. "You should know that better than anyone. You hand-selected most of them."

"This is true," Santana admits, nodding once as she takes a sip from her champagne glass.

"So, tell me," Sam starts, sipping from his glass as well, "Does Brittany know she was hand-picked as well?"

Santana, very much the master of the poker face, simply arches an eyebrow.

"Didn't think so," Sam says.

"Mr. President," Quinn says, joining them, "…and Ms. Lopez. I thought that was you."

"Afternoon, Senator Fabray or should I be saying Senator Fabray-Chang," Sam asks cheekily.

Quinn gives him a rueful smile, shaking her head slightly. "Unfortunately, no, Mr. President. Obviously you haven't been keeping up with the latest chatter," Quinn tells them both, expecting the surprise on their faces. "Turns out Michael takes the 'eye for an eye' idiom _very_ seriously."

Sam swallows thickly, reading between the slightly blurred lines – but then again, it takes an adulterer to know an adulterer.

"Oh," Santana says, feeling awkward as well, especially when Quinn lets her normally bright eyes sadden a little bit. "Are you…are you going to be okay Senator?" she asks, her honest tone surprising even to herself.

"Of course I will be," Quinn says, shaking the feelings away and painting a smile back on. "You know I'm a trooper," she adds with a wink. "Just have a little faith."

Sam rocks back on his heels, incredibly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

"Well, anyway," Quinn moves on, "I wasn't intending to talk about that today anyway and I know we're not supposed to be talking shop Mr. President, but I've been meaning to speak with you regarding the bill?"

"Yes," Sam says enthusiastically, finding a table to set his glass on before taking Quinn by the crook of the elbow and leading her away. "Excuse us for a moment, Santana?"

Santana waves him off, already scanning the sea of faces for a familiar one with blue eyes…and jumping a mile high when someone unexpectedly pinches her on the side. "Looking for someone?" Brittany whispers, sliding in front of Santana from the opposite side of the pinch.

Santana smiles widely. "Maybe," she drawls.

"I can help," Brittany chirps, playfully looking around. "What does this person look like?"

"Well," Santana starts, her tone just a tad bit flirtatious. She catches Sam looking at the both of them but quickly puts that out of her mind. "She's blonde, she'd got these incredibly piercing blue eyes and the most gorgeous smile…"

"Hmm," Brittany taps her chin with her fingers. "Are you talking about the dog?"

"Brittany," Santana laughs, looking at her friend tenderly.

"What?" Brittany asks, her eyes sparkling as she smiles.

"You're so goofy."

"Oh yeah?" Brittany asks, coyly. Her eyes flit down to Santana's mouth. "What else am I?"

Santana can feel herself moving closer, her eyes tunneling only on Brittany. "I really want to kiss you right now," she whispers.

Brittany drops her gaze a little, bashful. "If we weren't here right now, I wouldn't stop you," she says, brushing her hair back out of her face. "I do wish _he'd_ quit staring at us though."

"I think he suspects something," Santana says, not even needing to look to know whom she's referring to.

"I don't care what he suspects," Brittany says dismissively. "You know, this whole decision thing is stupid anyway. If there's some 'whistle-blower'," Brittany air quotes, "they're not going to sit on this information forever. I should just divorce him before everything falls apart."

"Mrs. Evans! Over here!"

_**FLASH**_

"Damn it, Blaine," Santana says, blinking to regain her focus. "What have I told you about taking pictures before the subject is prepared? You freaking Paparazzi in training. You're two unflattering pics away from upskirting, I swear."

"Come on, Santana," Blaine smiles, lowering the camera, "You know I take the best pictures."

"Hello, Blaine," Brittany smiles as Santana grumbles good-naturedly beside her, still rubbing her eyes.

Blaine bows a little. "Afternoon, Mrs. Evans. You want to make a statement about the drive?"

"Nothing official, Blaine. But, you can say that I was pleased with the turnout. Proud of our country and all that," Brittany muses.

"Done," Blaine says, boisterously as he jots down the line on his tablet.

"Also, I'd like to talk about my good friend Santana, here," Brittany says, eyes brightening.

"Oh yeah?" Blaine asks, grinning.

"Yep. You want to know something funny about this woman right here – the woman who has everyone in Washington in her back pocket?"

"What've you got?" Blaine asks, glancing back and forth between the duo, Santana looking as interested in the answer as he is.

"Guess what her favorite movie is?"

"Brittany," Santana gasps. "Don't you dare."

"_The Lion King_," Brittany says gleefully, "She even wanted to marry Nala."

"Britt," Santana squeals.

"That's cute," Blaine says, scribbling away.

"Print that and I'll paint a unibrow on your tribrows in your sleep," Santana lightly but seriously threatens.

Blaine's jostled by someone bumping into him, hard, knocking his iPad to the floor.

"Sorry," Kurt says, barely turning around to apologize but he raises a brow at the backside view he gets when he does, but he can't be distracted.

He's got to find Mercedes and fast.

"Mercedes!" he yells, finally spotting her surrounded by a bunch of the politically elite.

"Excuse me," Mercedes says politely, seizing Kurt by the arm and dragging him to the side. "What is your problem fool?"

"This just came off your fax," Kurt says, thrusting the paper into her hands. "Today's the twelfth."

Mercedes looks down at the transmission, confused of its importance. It's just a portrait of Bobby, his most recent school picture. But, on closer inspection, she realizes why Kurt's so alarmed.

Below the snapshot, typed in plain font is _Robert "Bobby" Evans – August 15__th__, 2024_.


End file.
